Feed Your Head
by mickeylover303
Summary: It was the world that made them question, but it was experience that gave them no answers.
1. Part One

_One pill makes you larger…_

--

The sudden feeling of being alone washed over him, encompassed him, and caused his breath to hitch. Something he'd felt too many times in his life, he thought he finally overcame it, passed it, but it was still there. It still haunted the back of his mind where he tried to bury it so long ago. And the fact that he couldn't see only served to make his current situation worse.

He had never really been afraid of the dark, but it didn't stop the panic from beginning to set in; didn'tf matter when he came to the understanding of how helpless he felt, when he understood how vulnerable he was.

And regardless of how hard he tried to, he still couldn't see. He'd almost catch a glimpse of something, a vague image before it would disappear; as if he were seeing out of the corners of a blindfold that tied too tightly. Slowly, he let his hand wander to his face, hoping to find some kind of cloth over his eyes, but he only felt his fingertips brush over close eyelids and discovering that he couldn't open his eyes at all.

"…hello?" he called out hesitantly, voice soft as he tried to rationalise the situation; tried to consider the possibility that he may not have been alone after all. He hoped fear would take a backseat to reason as he extended one arm; reaching out to nothing.

"Anybody…" he said again after a few seconds, only to be answered by the faint echo of his own voice. Making the assumption that he was in a confined space, or somewhere that retained sound, he took a step forward. His slowed and controlled breathing undermined the light tap of his bare foot on what he now noticed was a dirt floor; feeling awkward and somehow out of place.

There was a sudden laughter behind him, the resonance of which causing a chill to run down his spine. He couldn't really explain why, but it sounded wrong, almost unnatural and he had to resist the instinct to just run. Stilling, he waited to hear it again. It came from a deep voice, sonorous and part of him wondered if he imagined it entirely when he didn't hear it for a second time. But his heart still continued to race when he finally decided to turn around.

"Who's there?" he asked, voice raised slightly and inflicted with a fear he couldn't quite grasp.

The sound of his quick breathing was interchanged with the silence, his pulse fervently reverberating in his mind. And he began to back away slowly, unsure of what lay behind him, but resolved to get away from the voice he heard. It stirred a dread within him he couldn't explain – a trepidation that he didn't want to know – and for a reason he couldn't remember why.

He nearly jumped, startled when the back of his knees hit something soft; immediately placing his hands behind him as he fell onto what he could only determine was a large bed. The image of striped sheets, blue and white suddenly came to mind before it disappeared just as quickly; once more leaving him in darkness.

Hands on resting on the bed, he griped the material beneath him tightly, lush within his desperate grasp as he tried to hold back tears of frustration; wanting to no more than to be able to open his eyes.

But his body stiffened when he heard a harsh pounding, something hitting a wall and furthering the possibility that someone else was here with him. Though, he wasn't sure who or even what it was, and despite the possibility it could be from the same source of the laughter, any reservation was quickly drowned out by the realization it meant he would no longer be alone.

He scrambled off the bed at the thought, nearly tripping over himself in his haste. Quickly regaining his balance, he could feel the dirt settling in between his toes as he broke out into a run; moving in the first direction his feet led him. The pounding was getting louder, almost deafening in his ears as he came closer and closer to it.

But even through this, he could somehow discern another sound, muffled against the hammering on the hard surface; a muted voice that was almost recognizable - suddenly recognizable – and was augmenting his need to find it.

He shouted a familiar name when the sounds overshadowed everything else; his own heartbeat and frantic breathing nearly nonexistent against the reckless banging on the wall, the desolate tone of another person's voice. He yelled again when his body slammed against a wall, bringing his own fists against it and adding to the wretched cacophony when he realised he couldn't get to the other side. His pounding became louder, more desperate as it began to obscure the initial noise. He bit his bottom lip, hard enough to draw blood; adrenaline sill coursing through him as he wondered why he couldn't just break through.

He moved as he kept hitting the wall, frantically searching for a way to the other side and ignoring the pain in his throbbing hands as time began to slow down. What seemed like an eternity only lasted for a moment as he became less fervent in his motions – the silence returning and intertwined with his discordant breathing; the muffled voice already fading away. He waited for a few seconds, already knowing what to expect but still not able to repress a choking sound when he heard the shot; a silent cry coming out of him as his forehead rested against the wall.

The last of the adrenaline leaving him, his shoulders began to hunch, body leaning heavily against the wall as his fist made contact with it one last time; the effort feeble. He cursed aloud, the whispered words a poor consolation to his trembling frame as he brought his knees to chest, putting his head in between them.

Eyes suddenly opening when he felt an arm wrap around him.

* * *

Nick glanced up when he heard someone sneezing behind him, turning around to see Sara lift her face from her shoulder. "Bless you."

Sara sniffed, looking at Nick somewhat groggily. "Thanks."

"Getting a cold there, Sara?" he asked; a teasing note in his voice.

"Ha. Ha." She gave him a sardonic smile. "And to think I just got used to not having to deal with you so early in the day."

Nick had no problem returning the smile, amusement fading when Sara's phone rang. He turned away as she answered it, shifting his attention back on the body sprawled out on a blue chairs. They got the call not even a half hour ago, a male DB found in one of the rooms at The Venetian. It was the housekeeper – Tanya Harding – who found him, using her key to enter the room when no one answered her knock on the door. At first she thought he was just sleeping because there was no evidence of blood or any obvious trauma, but it was when she checked his pulse that she discovered he was dead.

When Nick questioned her, she didn't seem to be that phased by the fact that she stumbled upon a dead body; didn't even move it or mess up a potential crime scene. Either she watched too much TV or she was used to this kind of thing. Though, Nick was betting on the latter since the obvious aggravation in her voice let him know she just wanted get back to her cleaning schedule. That and she more or less hinted at it.

It almost disheartened Nick that people were becoming more and more desensitized by things like death, and in this case, possibly murder, but he wouldn't immediately think to put her down as a suspect. Though, he still had her information and a surprisingly voluntary set of prints. And since she didn't really have an alibi, he surmised it was better to be safe than sorry.

Nick glanced up the same time Sara closed her cell phone. "That was Catherine?" he asked.

"She's on her way."

"Is Dave behind her?"

"Apparently, he's caught up in traffic, too." Sara scrunched up her face. "I forgot that this weekend is Labor Day weekend."

"No different from any other weekend here," Nick replied with a snort. He reached for the black leather wallet on the small coffee table, gloves rubbing against the worn material. He unfolded it carefully, mindful of the fraying edges and wary of it falling it apart. After skimming through a couple of credit cards, he found a driver's license; the photo on it matching the victim's face.

"Our victim was a Thomas Wilcox, 28 years old and from Westminster, Maryland. Even had a Club Grazie card."

"I'm assuming he used to come here often."

"Yeah, I guess so. Because other than a few credit cards, this guy's wallet is practically empty. No photos, receipts...not even bills or change. "

Sara shrugged. "Maybe he's paranoid like you."

"I'm not that bad...am I?" Nick asked, his voice becoming uncertain as he placed the wallet in an evidence bag; tagging it before setting it in a cardboard box.

"I'm not the one you should be asking."

Nick looked at her in confusion before understanding settled on his face. "...oh."

"Hey, Nick..."

"Hmm?" Nick blinked when the flash of the camera went off, Sara taking a picture of the laptop on the coffee table.

"Turn the lights off, please."

Nick moved to the front of the room; reaching to turn off the lights. Returning to the table, he watched as Sara slowly moved the UV light across the victim's body; immediately identifying various dark spots on Wilcox's body as semen. The findings wouldn't have been unusual on their own accord if it weren't for the fact that the victim's pants weren't undone, to which some part of Nick was immensely grateful for.

At first glance, it seemed as if Wilcox may have been having sex on the chair with someone, and judging by his need to travel light, probably a hooker or call girl. And if the case turned up being a homicide, it could explain why no cash was found in his wallet. It could also explain the nearly full beer bottle he and Sara found on the table earlier, which could have easily been a medium for poison. But it wasn't until Sara moved the light across the keyboard of the laptop did he begin to rethink the situation; suggesting the semen was a result from a solitary act.

"On the…" she began warily, turning the UV light off and getting up to turn the main room lights back on.

"Yeah..."

"Okay, honestly, I can say that of all the places I'd thought I'd find semen," she paused, taking a moment to watch Nick collect a sample of the semen, placing a swab in a tube. "On a computer wasn't one of them."

"Which is ironic considering the kinds of things people get up to on them," Nick said. While he could understand where Sara was coming from, the circumstances for the situation actually did make sense. He spared her a glance before turning around to put away the sample; reaching across the table to turn on the computer and careful not to make contact with the keyboard.

"Looks like the battery's dead," he said after trying to turn it on few more times. He looked under the table. "And I don't see an A/C adapter, either."

Sara pursed her lips. "Guess that means we're taking it back with us. Maybe that will help give us a motive or at least explain why he's dead if not how."

"The guy probably got caught up in his own excitement." Nick made a face when he thought about what he said, realising it probably sounded worse said out loud than in his head. "But not – Not like how it sounds."

"_Well_," Sara said, drawing the word out slowly, "I think there may be something that can give us both our how _and_ our why."

* * *

Greg released a heavy sigh as he unbuckled his seatbelt, watching Warrick approach his car from the corner of his eye. He tensed when the other man opened the door, not able to gauge his expression due the sunglasses he was wearing.

"Looking a little roughed up there, Sanders," the other man said not without a hint of concern.

Momentarily unsettled, Greg felt a small frown appear on his face. He neglected to look in the mirror this morning, but wondered how bad he looked if Warrick was trying to bringing it to light. But more importantly, he wondered how quickly he could divert the other man's attention. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate Warrick's concern, but Greg personally thought it was neither the time nor place to be worrying about him; especially with what happened to Nick a few months ago and the sudden increase of cases, lately. His dreams were his problem and he really didn't want to involve anyone else if he could help it.

Eventually, Greg decided to answer Warrick with a knowifng smile; hoping the other man would make his own assumptions.

Warrick paused briefly at the expression on Greg's face, the tone in his voice quickly on the verge of becoming one of unease. "Wait…is it something I don't want to know about?" he asked uncertainly.

If possible, Greg's smile grew even wider. "Not if it's not what you don't want to be thinking."

Warrick sucked his teeth as Greg got out of the car, the sound almost lost as Greg closed the door. "Between you and Nick…"

"You say it like it's a bad thing," Greg countered, kit in one hand and his other using the key to lock his car.

"Don't push it, Sanders. You're late enough as it is."

"Technically," Greg began, taking a quick glance at his watch before looking back at Warrick. "You two are just _really_ early." He continued before Warrick had a chance to respond. "How long ago was the fire?" he asked, nodding to the brick house in front of them. The damage of the fire seemed to be concentrated in the upper right portion of the house.

"The fire department was called in a couple of hours ago," Warrick answered as he walked past the fire truck and under the police tape, Greg closely following him as he listened to the older man. "Still not sure about the fire's point of origin, but we haven't ruled out arson, yet."

Greg nodded his head, suppressing the morbid curiosity that dwelled within him. He didn't have much experience with cases that dealt with fire, but had always had a kind of fascination with it; one that captivated him yet instilled a fear within him could sometimes be suffocating. Pushing the thoughts away, he looked to the house in front of him.

It was large for a house, three stories and not uncommon to see in this part of Vegas. But it was strange because it was an all brick house with no hint of vinyl siding, which could have been how the outside of the house survived the fire for the most part. It led Greg to believe that whoever lived had more than just some kind of money. As they neared the front door, he peered into the open garage, wide enough to hold more than four cars, but raised his eyebrows when he saw that it was empty.

"Was anyone here during the fire?" Greg asked as he readjusted the camera strap around his neck.

Taking off his glasses, Warrick shook his head. "House belongs to a Nathan and Carol Harrison, an older couple in their late forties, early fifties. But we didn't find any bodies. One of the neighbours, Vincent Dawkins," he gestured his head to a man speaking with a police officer up ahead, "called it in. But he says he hasn't seen any sign of the Harrisons in a few months. The alarm system did go off and the fire marshal said they had to break down the door, corroborating with what the neighbour's claim."

"Any other witnesses?" Greg asked.

"Apparently just him."

Greg glanced at the house, again; narrowing his eyes in concentration. "How big was the fire, then?"

"Small enough that it didn't have time to reach the hallway."

Greg would readily concede that he didn't have as much experience in the field as his colleagues, but even he was beginning to think the situation was more than a little odd. "It must have been a _really_ slow burning fire. And if what Dawkins said about the Harrison is true – insurance claim maybe? Entered and left in the middle of the night."

"Not that it looks like they need it. But yeah, I'm not thinking it was an accident, either. It looks more like someone was trying too hard to make it look that way, though," Warrick said, slightly nodding to an officer who stood by the front door.

Ready to greet the officer as well, Greg bit his tongue when he actually took notice of her; eyes slightly narrowing in confusion when he realised he didn't recognize her; the name on her uniform reading Davis. Yet, it only surprised him because he usually knew or already had dealings with most of the officers. He didn't know if it was coincidence or otherwise, but it had always been like that since he first started training to go into the field. And despite acknowledging his own lack of forethought, it just never occurred to him that there was a possibility of there being people he had yet to meet until now.

If Greg did cross paths with her before, he would at least like to think that he would have remembered her. She was much shorter than him, not even reaching his shoulder. She looked older, maybe closer in age to Sara and had a light complexion, almost pale against dark black hair that was rolled into a slightly messy bun. But it was her face that really caught his attention. She had mousey features; including a small nose and slanted eyes – ones that Greg would have called exotic if everything didn't seem so scrunched together.

Davis shifted a little, and Greg was gazing at her too intently to be concerned about whether it was out of comfort when he caught sight something on her forearm; what looked to be a tattoo just above her wrist.

It wasn't the first time he'd seen a tattoo, but something about it seemed funny...almost off. It was the outline of the back of a rather elongated rabbit; its head turned over its shoulder so it seemed that it was peering directly at whoever was looking at it. And the only coloured portion of the tattoo was the puffy tail that was filled in with white ink.

Greg was taken out of his musings when he heard a voice close to his ear. "Do you have something you need to ask me?" Davis said, turning her head slowly to look at Greg.

Caught off guard by the detachment in her voice, Greg stammered in response. "No, it's just that-"

"Then, I'd appreciate if you'd stop staring and get to your job so I can do mine," she said resolutely, turning to face away from Greg and leaving him with the view of her profile.

Greg blinked twice, taking a moment to recollect his thoughts. He could feel the heated blush on his face and already acknowledged he was wrong for staring, but was sure that an attempt at an apology would be just that – an attempt – and probably end up getting him in trouble.

He was going to try anyway, but was cut off when he heard Warrick's voice calling him from upstairs.

* * *

"That's bull and you know it, Sara," Nick said tightly – maybe even a little petulantly. He couldn't tell by her expression if she was merely teasing him or if she was being serious, but the subject was beginning to hit too close to home for comfort and he wanted nothing more than to drop it.

"I don't know, Nick," Sara said slyly, a kind of gleam in her eyes. "It's not much different from death by chocolate. In fact, I'd even go as far to say-"

"Again?"

Nick and Sara halted their conversation at the presence of a new voice; both looking up to see Catherine entering the room.

"No, Catherine," Nick said firmly, hoping the discussion would end now that Catherine was here.

"You're the one who believed in the scuba diver-"

"Don't even start, Sidle. That was a _completely_ different-"

"Wait a minute," Catherine interrupted, pointing between Nick and Sara. "Does this have anything to do with our victim?"

"No," Nick answered the same time Sara said, "Yes."

Catherine looked at them impatiently. "Guys, whatever you have to say, just spit it out," she said resignedly.

Nick sighed in annoyance before deciding to speak first, sparing a reproving glance to Sara and returning his attention to Catherine. "Sara thinks our vic's death may have been caused..." he paused, motioning his head to show his displeasure, "by ejaculation," he finished almost reluctantly.

"Really, now?" Catherine asked, eyebrows rising with evident interest in her voice.

"Oh, come on Catherine," Nick said, feeling more than a little outnumbered with both Sara and Catherine teaming up on him. "Don't tell me you actually believe that?"

"Well...maybe not literally, Nicky. But sure," she said, shrugging her shoulders, "why couldn't a stimulus as strong as an orgasm-"

"Look, the guy was 28. And I don't know about you two," Nick said pointedly, "but I think that's pretty young to be having a heart attack."

"Then you don't have anything to worry about," Sara said, "do you, Nick?"

Nick frowned at the remark, but refrained from saying anything. While he knew he was fairly secure with himself, he did have his moments, which – to his displeasure – many people were able to pick up on; some more easily than others. Because though common sense had told him Sara was intentionally teasing him from the beginning, it didn't mean he had to listen to it.

"We're just messing with you, Nick," Catherine added, not bothering to hide the grin on her face. She reached out for his arm, squeezing the muscle in reassurance until he responded with a small smile of his own; the moment disappearing at the sound of hurried footsteps in the hall.

"Hey, sorry I'm late. It felt like it took forever to leave that crime scene."

The other three occupants in the room turned to see David standing in the doorway, glasses askew and nearly out of breath.

"Did I miss anything?"

* * *

Greg followed Warrick into the room, not startled by the familiar voice that seemed to anticipate their entrance.

"Took you long enough," Grissom said, not turning around to face the other two men. He was kneeling down in the far right corner of a room, elbow resting on one knee.

Greg placed his kit down by the door. He took the camera from around his neck, giving it to Warrick when the other man gestured silently for it. Not having much experience with these kinds of cases, he didn't take it seriously, more than willing to watch and learn from Warrick. He reached into his pocket for a pair of gloves, staring at the back of Grissom's head patiently as he moved closer to the older man.

"Judging by char pattern," Grissom continued; using his finger to trail from the ceiling to the floor, following a particularly wide and dark impression on the wall, "I'd say the point of origin is here."

Greg looked up at the ceiling beams, noticing where the corners rounded off away from the fire's point of origin. He turned his gaze back to the floor, recognising the depression around a small area where a hole was almost burned in the wooden floor. Bending down, he pointed at the collection of a substance on the floor.

"Is that...is that wax?" he asked, absently backing away so Warrick could take a picture. Greg looked to Grissom with a bemused expression. "Could a candle have done this? Directed the fire straight up, I mean," he added while pointing to the wall.

"I don't know," Grissom admitted. "Never came across anything like this before."

"I don't see any glass or metal, though," Warrick said through the whirring sound of the camera, "no sign of anything that could have held the candle. Unless it was just placed on the floor and left to burn."

"Out of context, it looks like the flame rose to the ceiling," Grissom said. "But it burned too slowly and there's no evidence of an accelerant being used."

Greg bit his lip in thought. "There's no chemical you can use to stabilise fire like that because the heat is ultimately going to cause _some_ kind of reaction; either speed up the fire or put it out because I don't think whoever did this was going for a pyrotechnic display. And yeah, some chemical combinations may slow it down, but nothing like this."

"Regardless, though," Warrick countered, "someone would have to be here to even plan something like that out. The door had to be kicked down to get in the house during the fire, but that doesn't tell us much, if anything."

"And our only suspects are the missing owners of the house and our only eyewitness," Grissom stated.

Greg let his eyes wander around the room as a brief silence fell between them. Even after the fire, the room wasn't really much to look it; almost painfully simple with only a full sized bed and a small dresser across from it. It didn't even have a closet, but Greg's interest peaked when his eyes wandered back to the bed, catching the smallest glimpse of white behind the bed.

"Hey, Grissom," he said as he moved closer to the bed, bending over to pick up the white object and inspect it carefully. "Did the Harrisons have any kids?"

Grissom shook his head without turning around. "No…why do you ask?"

"This looks like a…stuffed animal." Greg held up what he now determined to be some kind of bear. It was wet and soggy, the stuffing sagging and distributing most of the weight to the bottom of it. "What's left of it, anyway," he added as he tried to keep the head from falling off its body.

Focus now on Greg, Grissom tilted his head slightly. "Could be from a collection or some kind childhood memorabilia. They've been married for thirty years and have no record of any children."

"Really…" Greg asked dubiously, gaze wavering between Grissom and the white bear in his hand. "Because the rest of the house seems so…"

"Bare?" Grissom suggested.

"I was going to say clinical, but that works, too."

"Well," Warrick added, "since the Harrisons don't visit often, it makes since that it is."

Greg gave a non-committal shrug, putting the bear on the dresser to look at the room once more.

In general, the room was mostly intact. There was considerable damage done to the walls and the two pieces of furniture – anything that was out in the open – but Greg was still surprised that the fire department was able to contain the fire to one room. Regardless of the exterior of house, by the time help arrived, Greg would have assumed that the fire would have spread beyond just one room; especially since it took him nearly half an hour to get here.

That was unless someone was trying to hide something; using the fire to cover something else up.

He knew it was a long shot, but he fixed his gaze back on the bed; the wooden frame surprisingly still erect. When he was younger, his parents used to put some of their papers in the second and smaller guest room until he unofficially decided to make it his play area. And compared to the other rooms in the house, the damaged one was relatively small and seemed more suitable for an office space. It was more probable the Harrisons kept any important papers or documentation with them if they didn't visit this house often, but Greg still thought it was worth something to check beneath the bed.

Placing himself on his hands and knees, Greg lifted the bed skirt; still damp by the water used to put out the fire earlier. His face twisted in confusion upon seeing a gathered pink blanket near the wall. Considering how neutral and sparsely decorated the rest of the house was, it seemed more than a little unusual to have something like a blanket under the bed – much less a pink one – and especially one that wasn't even folded. Licking his lips as he put his head underneath the bed, he reached for it carefully, nearly taken by surprise when he felt a slight weight attached to it. Reaching with his other hand, he took hold of the other end of blanket carefully; wary of what could be in it.

He grunted when he was able to get the blanket out, a small gasp escaping him when he realised what was in the bundle.

"Grissom," he yelled out hurriedly, arms beginning to shake; suddenly becoming heavy despite the light weight he held. He tried to calm himself, closing his eyes when he heard two sets of footsteps rushing towards him.

He heard Warrick first, calling out his name; the other man's shadow moving over him and suddenly making Greg feel small. He felt Warrick kneel beside him, a soft curse falling from the older man's lips.

When Grissom hovered over him, Greg opened his eyes; his expression lost as he looked peered up at his supervisor. "I thought you said they didn't have any kids?" he asked quietly. He knew there really wasn't an answer – probably wasn't going be – but right now, he couldn't help but want some kind of reason that explained the still body in the blanket, the little girl in his arms.

He waited as Grissom continued to stare at her; eyes grim and mouth set in a straight line.

"I was wrong."

* * *

_:insert standard disclaimer here:_

__

_The lyrics from the top are taken from "White Rabbit," the song by Jefferson Airplane that ultimately pushed me to write this._

Still, I'm mentally strangling myself for even putting this up here while simultaneously chanting something about finishing this. I'm not even going to lie and say I'll complete it by the end of this month because this will be painfully long (for me, at any rate). And while this does contain slash of the Nick and Greg variety, it's predominantly a casefile(s) that focusses on their takes on what's happening; and may include a little snippet here or there about their relationship. On the same token, this does contain some...different themes. Though, unfortunately, they're based on real life situations.

_Anyways, this will be twelve parts in total and refers to things that occur in canon and my WibG universe, both of which can be completely disregarded for the sake of sanity._


	2. Part Two

_And one pill makes you small…_

_--_

Nick shared a look with Sofia as he moved closer to knock on the door, rapping on it three times before backing away. He took out his notebook and pen as they waited for Susan Wilcox to answer.

Apparently, it appeared that Thomas Wilcox had a wife, which didn't seem too strange after Catherine pointed out the dark, circular impression around the man's finger. But what was strange was the fact that they couldn't get in touch with her by either number found in Wilcox's cell phone; instead discovering that she was staying in the Venetian – the same hotel her husband was in – and only a floor above his.

It took some time to locate her, but since she was listed as Wilcox's next of kin, Archie was able track her location through her cell phone number by GPS.

Nick sighed as he watched Sofia lean over to knock on the door again. The capabilities of technology never failed to amaze him, but at the same time, he wasn't that deluded that he missed the possible repercussions and consequences of what could happen when it was used in the wrong hands.

After a few more moments, he was about to knock for a third time when he could pick up sounds of footsteps on the other side; the door opening to reveal a pale woman wearing a long white robe pulled tightly around her chest.

"Mrs. Wilcox?" Sofia asked; shoulders slightly tense as her gaze skimmed over the other woman.

She was pale, cheeks slightly flushed as her large green eyes peered inquisitively at Nick and Sofia. "Yes…" she said cautiously.

"Hi, my name is Nick Stokes and this is Sofia Curtis," Nick said while motioning to Sofia with his head. "We're with the Las Vegas Crime Lab, and we'd like to ask you a few questions if you wouldn't mind?"

"Actually," she said, putting herself between Nick and the room, slowly closing the door behind her, "I'd prefer it if we talked outside."

Nick didn't have any objections, and knew Sofia didn't either as long as she was willing to talk. A question on the tip of his tongue, Nick stopped mid-sentence when he heard what sounded like a loud groan from the room; able to catch a glimpse of a bare chest on the bed before the door closed all the way. He coughed politely, not mentioning the man in Susan's room who was obviously not her husband.

"I know I'm not in trouble or anything. So, what are the cops even here for?" she asked impatiently, moving a strand of dark red hair from her face. Either she didn't care that they saw the man in her room or she chose to ignore it.

"Your husband's death, ma'am," Nick began. Judging by first impression alone, he wasn't sure that she would even care if he was gone. "I'm sorry for your loss and-"

"Oh, don't tell me this is another one of those stunts he's trying to pull." She crossed her arms in annoyance; leaning languidly against the doorframe.

"You don't seem too concerned," Sofia pointed out, the tone in her voice confirming the sceptical expression on her face.

"He's always saying he's going to kill himself one day. But what does a deadbeat like him have to off himself for?"

Nick looked at Sofia warily before turning his attention to Susan. "Well…no, he didn't kill himself; at least intentionally."

"And we _don't_ believe it was an accident, either," Sofia added.

"And you're looking at me because…?" Susan cocked her head to side, uncrossing her arms and straightening her posture.

Nick withheld from making a comment about her lackadaisical reaction to her husband's death. While he did suspect that she was involved in some way, she didn't seem too concerned about him and Sofia seeing the man in her room – if he was any indication of her having an affair – more or less concerned for his privacy if nothing else. "We found your husband dead two days ago in his hotel room and no evidence that you were even here until now. And you checked in four days ago – the same time your husband did. Want to explain that for me?"

"We were having our second honeymoon," she answered shortly.

"Staying in different rooms at the same hotel?" Nick asked flatly.

"It was a separated honeymoon."

Sofia raised an eyebrow, gaze moving to the small ring on Susan's finger before moving back to rest on Susan's face. "You didn't even know he was dead."

"Okay," Susan began, releasing an exasperated sigh. "But I didn't even know he was here until I got checked in myself, when I saw him coming out of the elevator in the front lobby. I thought he was just going off on one of his so-called "business trips" she said, murmuring the last two words with revulsion. "And I don't think it can be any more obvious I'm having an affair – well, I guess it doesn't count since he's dead now, though."

"And that's why you killed him in the first place," Sofia accused, "because he found out about it."

"_Please_," Susan said scoffing. "Like I'd waste my time on him. Thomas was just excess baggage."

"You still don't seem too concerned about his death," Nick said. "Excess baggage or not, he was still your husband."

Susan sighed. "I only married him because it made my parents happy and he'd just come into his inheritance. But it didn't take long for him to spend it all and leave me dry."

"And you weren't thinking about an insurance policy?" Sofia continued.

"He didn't plan ahead for it. Since we decided not to have kids, he thought mom and dad would continue to be his main source of income." She paused, a thoughtful expression on her face as she said, "Until they finally cut him off, of course."

"So, where were you on the morning of September seventeenth between the hours of six and seven?" Sofia asked.

"Not here. I didn't get back to my room until eight or nine. I went down to the pool around five or so. You can even ask the pool boy that was there – Mark or something, I think." She shrugged at the looks Nick and Sofia were giving her. "I like to get up early to swim. But seriously, I did not kill my husband. I couldn't even be bothered with him on a regular basis."

"So, you just happened to be at the wrong place and the wrong time," Nick said, sounding more as if he was making an incredulous statement rather than asking a question. Grissom taught him better than to blindly accept anything as coincidence.

"Believe it or not, I actually like this hotel. It's where Thom and I came for our first anniversary and where my affair with David," Susan nodded to the room behind her, "first started. We've been married for five years and the only thing that would surprise me is if Thom didn't know I was having one."

"So, he knew about your relationship outside of your marriage?" Sofia asked.

"Of course he did. But that was only because the lack of chemistry between us wasn't exactly one-sided, you know?"

Nick nodded as he closed his notebook, putting his pen in his pocket.

Noticing the action, Susan said, "Are we done now?" She opened the door behind her, ready to go back into the room.

"We'll call you if we have any more questions," Sofia said, smiling tightly.

"Thank you for your time," Nick added as the door closed, Susan on the other side of it. He turned to Sofia. "Travel all the way from Maryland to Nevada just to keep up with an affair?"

"I know. I don't believe it, either. And I'm having a hard time imagining her putting that much time into anyone else but herself."

"That David guy must really be something, then."

* * *

Robbins said she looked to be about five or six years old. And while her Asian features made it obvious she wasn't related to the Harrisons by blood, it still didn't rationalize her death or explain the couple's absence. Not to mention explain why the Harrisons were housing someone so young who legally didn't exist.

And maybe that's why Greg thought it seemed so odd that she didn't have a name, unfair that she died without anyone really knowing who she was. Some part of him wanted to give her a name himself, something to call her other than "the little girl". But he was already too involved in the case enough as it was and didn't need to make a personal attachment to someone he didn't even know…someone he would never know.

He stared at her for a little longer; her small face ashen and grey against dark hair that fell limply on the metal table. He felt a pang in his chest at the sight of her closed eyes, imagining them open and a gleam in them that would match the wide smile on her face. Resisting the urge to push the bangs out away from her forehead, Greg looked up when he heard the coroner's voice.

"While there is some evidence of smoke inhalation, it ultimately wasn't what killed her."

Grissom and Warrick looked at Robbins expectantly, waiting for the man to explain further.

"The complications were actually in the initial stages. Reduced oxygen at the tissue level, thermal injury to the upper airway," he paused, using his finger to point to the girl's nose and moving it over her open chest cavity, "and chemical injury to the lung – these occurred right before she died; barely noticeable compared to someone who'd actually died of smoke inhalation."

Greg looked thoughtfully at the pathologist but it was Warrick who spoke. "What killed her, then?"

"She died of asphyxiation due to smothering," he responded simply. "I found traces of a pink fiber in the back of her throat and in her nostrils."

"The blanket I found her in…" Greg said absently, immediately wondering if he could have saved her he reached her sooner; if he went straight for the bed instead of waiting for Grissom. The multiple what-ifs and should-haves quickly began to permeate his mind, mocking and silently ridiculing him. But any urge to speculate the possibilities not explored ebbed when Robbins continued to speak.

"And if the reported time for the fire is accurate," the pathologist said wearily, "she probably died right before it was put out."

Greg bit his bottom lip when the older man continued; closing his eyes as he sighed heavily.

"It's a shame, though. She was a pretty little girl."

After few seconds of quiet between them, Greg opened his eyes to see Robbins looking at Grissom expectantly; gaze admonishing as he addressed the other man. "You know what I'm going to say, Gil. I don't know much time you're going to have, but I hope you find something soon."

Grissom choose not to reply directly, walking around the metal table as if he was searching for something Robbins missed. "Did you find any evidence of-"

"Nothing in her rectum, or stomach," Robbins said as he shook his head. "No sign of tearing or abuse, she was clean."

"Wait a minute," Warrick said, looking at Grissom and Robbins. "Are you thinking this was-"

"Yes," Grissom interrupted, lifting his head and looking at Warrick sharply.

"Thinking about what?" Greg asked; a bemused expression on his face as he tried to keep track of the conversation the other men were having without him; feeling as if he was missing something important.

"There's a good chance this little girl was a product of a child trafficking ring, Greg," Robbins explained.

"Child trafficking?" Greg repeated, voice rising slightly. "Why would-"

"It makes sense," Warrick answered. "No legal documentation, no record of her existence – she's an Asian little girl…probably Chinese."

"But that doesn't explain…" Greg began weakly.

"It actually happens around here more than you think," Warrick said patiently. "A lot people and drugs come through Vegas. You just don't hear much about it because the Feds are the ones who pick up these kinds of cases."

"And if we're right," Robbins added, "it won't be long until they try take over this case, too."

Greg felt his whole body sag, the weight of Grissom's words weighing heavily against him; the tone of the older man's voice grave and foreboding.

"But _we're_ not going to stop until we find this little girl's killer."

* * *

Nick closed the refrigerator door lightly, the barely audible snap sharp against his ears. He frowned as he made his way to the couch, small green apple in hand as he sat beside Greg. He tried to force himself to relax into the lumpy cushions; loosening his shoulders as he made sure there was notable space between himself and the other man, who had yet to acknowledge Nick's presence.

He didn't blame Greg, of course, and they hadn't really had time to talk in the last few days. Nick had no desire to start a serious conversation anytime soon, but sometimes sitting next to each other would be enough. He didn't know much about the case; only that Greg had found a little girl wrapped in a blanket; held her in his arms. And while Nick had his fair share of bad situations, Nick couldn't even imagine how the other man felt; especially knowing Greg still hadn't had much exposure to these kinds of cases.

Nick never did like when kids were the victims. No one did. And while he knew he had his own personal demons that may have contributed more than anything else, Greg only had his lack of experience to fall back on. And Nick knew well enough how harsh of a teacher experience could be. Even now, almost year officially into the field and Greg still didn't know how to deal with how callous people could be – didn't know what to do with the information; his reactions still raw and poorly disguised against some of the scenes they came across.

Though, that wasn't to say Greg was as sensitive to some things as he once was. But it worried Nick each day he saw the shine in Greg's eyes began to dull, fade a little more; lines appearing around his face that weren't there before; the weary expression seeming like a permanent etching that Nick had seen more than once in the mirror. Because sometimes it felt as if the person he once knew was beginning to wither away.

However, as concerned as he was, Nick knew better than to let his personal relationship with Greg interfere with work; through both experience and a subtle admonition from Grissom it didn't take him long to learn that lesson. And it was fine because he and Greg weren't openly demonstrative about it, either. Their jobs demanded much from them and they knew what their priorities were. But it was in moments like this – where it seemed that maybe the demand was too much – that made Nick question the price he had to pay and wonder if it was really worth it in the end. And the realization that Greg might become as cynical as he was; as jaded as he was scared Nick more than he would have liked to admit.

It didn't help Nick feel better that Greg was having nightmares, again, either. He didn't know what they were about, just that Greg wouldn't shout after he woke up. He wouldn't move, stilling enough so that Nick could hear the slight quickened breathing until he opened his eyes; finally going back to sleep when Nick put an arm around him. Greg probably thought he didn't know, but Nick chose not to say anything. And honestly, he was hesitant to do so. He didn't want Greg withdrawing again like he did the last time. And while their roles were reversed this time around, waking up in the hospital and seeing the younger man after he was found, Nick couldn't remember an instance when anyone was so quiet, much less Greg.

_Nick opened his eyes slowly, thankful for the dim lighting in the hospital room; the lamp in the corner Catherine turned on. Noticing she was no longer here, he looked at the clock on the wall, noticing that visiting hours were almost over. She probably left while he was asleep. He rubbed his forearm gently, careful not to scratch the marks on his skin when he caught sight of someone sitting in the chair in the corner. Hidden in the shadows, Nick had almost overlooked him entirely._

_And Nick didn't understand how he could have in the first place. Even with the low lighting, he recognized his old college shirt immediately and the bottom of dark, faded jeans covering a pair of red Converse shoes. He began to sit up, ignoring the small pain in the back of his head from trying to sit up too quickly. "Greg…" he called out quietly when the younger man didn't move at the sound of the sheets on the bed rustling._

_He called out Greg's name again, not sure if the other man, was sleeping or not when he noticed Greg's hands tightly gripping the ends of the sleeves of the shirt; his head still resting on his legs as he continued to bend over in the chair. He tried to get Greg's attention once more, this time raising his voice slightly._

_Nick waited a few more seconds; his gaze still frozen on Greg as he concentrated on listening to the monotonous ticking of the clock. He wasn't expecting the delayed reaction when it came, didn't expect the look on Greg's face when he lifted his head slowly; a haunted look in his eyes and most of his features obscured by the dark._

_"…Nick," he said uncertainly, tentatively, and Nick had to swallow the lump in his throat when Greg looked at him; the light from the lamp catching the slight sheen in the other man's eyes._

_Nick inhaled deeply, pressing his lips together before trying to speak, trying to keep the choking sound out of his voice. "The bite marks don't mean I'm contagious, you know," he said jokingly, the humour a poor attempt to mask the fear he hid from everyone else; the disappointment in himself for allowing Greg to see him like this._

_But Greg didn't move, eyes unwavering and not leaving Nick's._

_"Is it okay?"_

It was a rough few weeks after that, but they eventually managed to get over it, like they always did. Of course, Nick had his own share of nightmares since being buried alive and coming to a point where he actually thought of killing himself. But Greg seemed more shaken by it than Nick. And while Nick wouldn't call Greg's behaviour clingy in the weeks that followed, he seemed so willing, so eager to please that Nick would have thought it disturbing if he didn't know how scared Greg was at the time.

He didn't readily agree with it, but it was Greg's way of coping. Nick preferred to talk about things in the open and he couldn't help but become frustrated when Greg chose to bottle things up. He was still trying to shake Greg out of the habit, but Nick was grateful it wasn't as bad as it was a couple of years ago. Now, only certain situations would bring out that side of Greg.

Nick sighed as he looked at Greg. The younger man's eyes were closed as he continued to sag further into the couch. He held his head down, chin almost touching his chest and the sides of his jacket collar flared up and hiding his face.

"Hey," Nick said quietly, watching Greg as he blinked; widening and closing his eyes until he decided to leave them open. Nick would have found the expressions Greg made funny under different circumstances.

"Hey."

"You hungry?" Nick asked, motioning at the apple in his hand.

"Is that from your secret stash?" Greg asked playfully, a small smirk on his face that came out more as sad smile.

"That got old after the first time you said it." Nick rolled his eyes. "But yeah, I brought it from home."

"Not hungry," Greg admitted, sitting up a little.

"You didn't eat this morning."

"I wasn't hungry then, either."

"You honestly think I'm going to buy that?" Nick asked, raising his eyebrows. He knew that Greg would sometimes forgo food if caught up in a case. And it was something he understood because he would do the same thing, too.

Greg didn't say anything to the remark and held out his hand, letting Nick put the apple in his palm. He looked at it curiously before lifting his head to peer at Nick. "Grissom's not happy," he finally said. "And I have a feeling I'm going to be here all night."

"You know Grissom would make you leave before asking for something like that."

"You know how he feels about these kinds of cases – how everybody feels." He looked at Nick keenly, not bringing up Nick's own issues. "But Grissom…something's not right about this one. We haven't found anything in the past two days. Nothing is matching up and now this could be part of some child trafficking ring…"

Nick didn't respond, letting Greg continue.

"I mean, I'm not looking for a case breaker anytime soon, but it would be nice if we had something to work on, you know?"

Unfortunately, Nick knew all too well. At least with his case, they had a suspect, possibly two, and were now waiting on a tox report for Wilcox. And as much as he would like to spend a few more minutes with Greg, he had to meet Catherine and Sara. He happened to see Greg as he was walking past the break room and wanted to make sure the other man had something eatable in front of him while he was there.

Whether or not Greg would actually eat it was an entirely different matter altogether.

Nick patted Greg on the thigh before standing up from the couch; hoping the gesture was somewhat comforting. "Eat it," he said pointedly. "And don't waste my money."

Greg snorted. "I'm the one who paid for it." He shook his head at Nick's comment as he took a bite out of the apple.

"Even more reason for you not to waste food," Nick said slyly as began to walk away; somewhat content that Greg was eating after all.

"You're just cheap," he heard Greg call out as he left the break room, the accusation falling flat. Nick smiled sadly. He could hear a faint trace of the familiar teasing in Greg's voice; the other man still not sounding his best. But Nick could admit that he didn't feel that much better, either.

* * *

Greg forced his legs to carry him out of the building, heading towards his car so he could go home. While he really did appreciate the gesture, Greg was being honest when he said he wasn't hungry because eating the apple only seemed to make him feel lethargic if nothing else. Either that or not taking care of himself was finally catching up with him.

And he knew Nick was right about Grissom, who even told Greg he looked more than a little haggard; the older man looking at him pointedly before returning his attention to the stack of papers on his desk. Though he was caught by surprise and should have seen it coming, sometimes Greg forgot how blunt his supervisor could be. Still, he didn't disagree because he understood he wasn't amounting to much by wearing himself for no reason. And after living on less than six hours of sleep in the past couple of days, Greg couldn't say he expected anything different.

But there were just too many inconsistencies in this case to let it slip under the radar like so many others have done before. Other than the trafficking angle, there was just something so off about it and he knew Warrick and Grissom felt the same way. It made him even more determined not to let it get to him; not to let anyone see that it was beginning to take a toll on him. He still felt he had a lot to prove to himself and there was frankly too much going on to get bogged down by personal problems.

He didn't want to have to choose between his nightmares and that little girl every time he closed his eyes.

Sighing, Greg reached for the keys in his pocket when he neared his car, putting them back when he heard his phone ring.

"Sanders," he answered dispassionately, running his tongue over his front teeth and swallowing the tangy and sweet flavour lingering in his mouth. He leaned against the passenger side of his car as Warrick's voice filtered through the receiver.

"Hey, man," Warrick said. "I got good news and bad news for you. Which one do you want to hear first?"

Greg paused before he answered, pretending to think. "Bad news," he eventually said, feeling particularly reproachful despite the somewhat encouraging tone of the other man's voice. "Save the best for last right?"

"Depends on what your definition of good is, first."

"At this point, anything seems better than seeing that little girl, again."

There was a short pause before Warrick decided to speak and Greg was grateful he didn't make respond to his comment. "Well, the bad news is we still can't find the Harrisons."

Greg scrunched his face in confusion, sitting up a little as he crossed one arm over his chest. He didn't see how not finding the Harrisons was anything new. "And the good news is…"

"We know they had something to do with it."

"Let me guess: The neighbour was lying," Greg said, already knowing Dawkins had to have called ahead of time in order to make sure that fire was contained to the extent that it was. Without some kind of notice, it was impossible for the firefighters t to arrive early enough so the fire wouldn't spread to the rest of the house, no matter how slow burning the fire was; especially if they were at least ten to fifteen minutes away from the Harrison's house. But even if what Dawkins claimed was true and Harrisons were actually behind the fire, it still didn't explain how they started it and kept it controlled. The candle on the floor in the room was identified as the source of the fire and Greg knew that there wasn't any accelerant used. Not to mention that the damage done didn't suggest evidence of any notable chemical reactions, nor was there any kind of metal found at the scene.

It seemed that either whoever started the fire knew what they were doing or the whole thing really was just a fluke.

"I know. Not so surprising, right? Dawkins came in to confess a couple of hours ago; said it had something to do with a guilty conscience." Warrick scoffed. "He claims the Harrisons were there for the weekend and called him ahead of time, forced him to call for help at least twenty minutes before they left."

Greg briefly wondered why the Harrisons didn't just call ahead themselves and if Dawkins was still hiding something before pushing the thoughts to the back of his mind. "They forced him?"

"Blackmail's more like it. Apparently, Dawkins was afraid of being convicted for tax evasion. Though, last time I left him, he was still trying to make a deal to salvage his law firm." Warrick paused, taking a deep breath and exhaling before he continued. "Other than that, he says he doesn't know much more about them and can't tell us where they went."

"With all that money he has," Greg trailed off, shaking his head. "But dispatch said they received the call somewhere around six in the morning, right? That would mean the Harrisons tried to kill the little girl before they started the fire." His voice softened as he came to a realisation. "And that's why Doc found the fibers from the blanket in her throat."

"But if they really wanted to get rid of the evidence, why have Dawkins call for help before any of it was destroyed?"

* * *

"Well," Nick began, sighing as he took a seat at the table across from Sara, "Her story adds up. I was able to get a statement from pool guy, as well as several eyewitness accounts from people who were at the pool that morning."

"How'd she feel about her husband's death?" Catherine asked, turning in her chair to face Nick.

"Not too distressed about the situation, actually."

Sara looked up from the open folder on the table. "Like she already knew or-"

"More like she didn't care," Nick finished. "Get this: She claims she came all the way out here to meet some guy named David she's having an affair with," he said disbelievingly.

"Motive?" Sara suggested.

"If we're talking circumstantial..." Nick leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table. "I mean, this woman wouldn't have cared if Wilcox dropped dead right in front of her; probably would have just walked right over him."

"Unfortunately, that doesn't mean she killed him," Catherine pointed out.

"I went over the security footage we brought from the hotel," Sara said, "three days worth including the days of Wilcox's death." She took out the photographs from the folder, spreading them out so Nick and Catherine would be able to see. "These are the only times he's been seen: By the reception desk where he checked in and twice in the lobby when he first came in and left – apparently to pick up some food to bring back to his room.

"These," she continued, pointing to two pictures in the center, "are the only times he took the elevator to the fourth floor where his room was; and then when he got off the elevator. And since the Venetian doesn't have cameras whose purview includes the rooms by the stairwells, there wasn't any footage that could prove if anyone else – namely Susan Wilcox – actually went into his room."

"Easy entry, easy exit," Nick said, taking a deep breath and puffing out his cheeks before exhaling. "Murder central, man."

"_But_," Sara said as she picked up another folder from the table. "I also had Archie get some close up on photos taken from the reception area, which I'm hoping you'll find interesting," she said, directing her eyes to Nick as she extended her arm to give him the folder.

Nick gave a quick glance to Sara before accepting the folder from her and opening it. He felt Catherine peering over his shoulder as he narrowed his eyes at the photo. His mouth turned into a frown as he studied the close-up of Wilcox handing his credit card to the receptionist; after a few seconds noticing the familiar piece of jewelry around Wilcox's finger.

"That's the ring I saw on Susan's finger, today," Nick said, putting the photo down and pointing at the ring Wilcox was wearing at the time."

"Either they had matching rings or she took his."

"And considering his wallet wasn't emptied and his ring was the only thing that was missing," Catherine said, "I'm betting it was probably the latter.

"All this melodrama between them – why didn't they just get a divorce?" Nick asked.

"Because divorce is messy, Nicky," Catherine said succinctly. "And sometimes it's just easier to pretend the other person isn't there."

Nick nodded, not completely understanding but willing to concede to Catherine's experience.

"But even if they weren't in Vegas together," Catherine added, "I don't think he would have suspected her of anything; would have any reason to, really. She was his wife and apparently he already knew about the affair so she probably had the element of surprise."

"Or maybe not," Sara interrupted, causing her colleagues to look at her. "You know those two calls Wilcox received that were from a Vegas area code? Turns out it came from a retirement home in Clark county - Acacia Springs."

"A retirement home," Nick repeated. "No kidding?"

"Yep." Sara nodded her head. "And who wants to bet that Susan's David had something to do with it?"

"Unless I missed the memo about 28 being the new retirement age," Catherine began, "we're overlooking something. So, what? We're thinking maybe David was the one getting tired of being second best and wanted Wilcox out the picture for good?"

"Yeah, I'll give Sofia a call to see if we can get him to come in willingly." Nick agreed. "But if he felt so angry not being able to take Wilcox's place, why such a passive MO like poison?"

"A poison that encourages an orgasm strong enough to cause a heart attack," Catherine countered. "And let's say he worked at the retirement home – that would give him access to tons of medication he probably wouldn't know what to do with."

Nick couldn't help the shudder that passed through his body. "Point taken," he said quickly, grateful when Sara reentered the conversation.

"Speaking of which," she said, "the laptop we found in Wilcox's room literally had gigabytes of encrypted files; which basically turned out to be nothing but pornography – pictures, videos, sound clips..."

"That could explain the state he was found in," Nick suggested, remembering his first glance of Wilcox. "It would definitely be the right kind of stimulus. Maybe that was why there was trouble in his marriage."

"Yeah," Sara said softly, lowering her head briefly before raising it again. "But all his stuff was of kids."

There was a moment of heavy silence between them and Nick felt his chest deflate; something twisting inside of the pit of his stomach as Catherine decided to speak.

"Guess that's what you call poetic justice."

_

* * *

I hope this was worth the wait. I didn't get anywhere, but an update is an update - at least I'm hoping - is an update (until I find mistakes). I'm still waiting for the day I finish the whole story, but I almost hit the 6000 word mark for this chapter, which of course slows my computer down when copying and pasting because he's too senstive to handle such a large amount of wordage at one time._

_Anyways, as always, thanks for reading and thank you to **silverrayne621**, **scatteredbrains**, and **DemonUntilDeath **for reviewing._


	3. Part Three

_And the ones that mother gives you don't do anything at all… _

--

Grissom hadn't raised his voice at anyone yet, but Greg couldn't deny that he was expecting it sometime in the near future.

And after spending the last hour or so examining what little evidence from the Harrison's house they brought into the garage, it wasn't hard for Greg to see why. He stifled a yawn, putting his mouth over the sleeve of his jumpsuit; warm air seeping into his skin as moisture leaked from the corner of his eyes.

Most of it was the partially charred furniture: the dresser and bed that were still in pretty good condition, suffering from smoke damage more than anything. They also collected pieces of the wooden floor that had been affected by the fire, alongside the section that denoted the point of origin and the source as some kind of candle, which was now just an embossed pool of wax. And judging by the area and the amount of wax that was found, they could say it came from a tall, circular candle – one that probably wasn't meant for lighting and only for decoration.

Based on the results from trace, it turned out a low quality wax was used for the candle; indicated by the small remnants of ornaments and polystyrene found in the wax, the latter of which possibly having something to do with the direction of the flames and how the fire spread. Since they also found polystyrene residue on the floor, it wasn't too farfetched to think the Harrison's could have made the candle themselves, burning the mould alongside the candle.

There was also some evidence of very small traces of lead. Greg was pretty sure it came from the core of the candlewick, but then it would only be used as a stiffener to slow down burning. There wasn't enough lead to place it as anything significant to causing or stopping the fire.

Greg flexed his fingers, rotating his wrist as he turned over a jagged plank recovered from the ceiling; careful not to break it as he moved it to the other side of the table. Most of what they did have all tied back to the little girl: the stuffed teddy bear found at the head of the bed, the pink blanket she was wrapped in, and a small barrette Greg later found inside the blanket after managing to pry the little girl's fingers from around it.

He put his hands on the edge of the table, using it to steady himself as he felt his body lean forward. It'd almost been a week since they started the case, and they were no closer to solving it now than they were then. And while Greg wasn't expecting miracles, he had hoped that they would have at least found something.

The fact that the Harrisons still couldn't be accounted for didn't help matters much. And though there was an APB out on them, Greg wasn't too sure it would do anything because their money probably allowed them the resources to disappear. It was already established they didn't spend too much time in their house in Henderson, but they were able to find another piece of property owned by the couple in Brea, California, where they actually lived; occasionally coming to Nevada.

Brass already made contact with the authorities in Brea, relating the missing couple and their possible involvement in homicide and attempted arson. So far, they hadn't heard anything conducive to the case. And it didn't seem like that pattern would be interrupted anytime soon.

But they already had enough to recreate what probably happened that night. And the images of the Harrisons easily took the places of the blank faces Greg once imagined. He knew how they did it; probably placed the little girl in the blanket first, suffocating her until they thought she was no longer breathing. Then they hid her beneath the bed, eventually leaving her to die in a fire they never intended to spread.

No, that part wasn't hard to imagine at all.

It was figuring out the why that Greg was still having trouble with.

* * *

Nick felt his pace quicken as he made his way through the halls.

It wasn't the first time he was conflicted about a case; whether it had something to do with the victim or his own personal reasons. And concerning his feelings about the death of a man who was essentially perpetuating child pornography, Nick could say it was a mix of both.

He agreed with Catherine when she called it a kind of poetic justice. And though it wouldn't prevent him from working to find out who may have killed Wilcox, Nick couldn't help but feel a slight sense of vindication for those kids who were being exposed like that. There was something perversely fulfilling about the knowledge that someone like Wilcox was off the streets for good.

But the fact that Wilcox was connected to something like still weighed heavily in his mind, broaching old memories that were beginning to channel into an anger and frustration that Nick wasn't sure had anything to do with Wilcox at all.

He sighed as he entered the trace lab, biting back another groan when the back of Hodges' head came into view.

It wasn't that he didn't recognise the merits of the other man. Some days, he just preferred not to deal with him and the last few have been particularly trying on Nick. Never mind that he didn't necessarily appreciate what Hodges probably thought was a sense of humour. And while he knew it was more out of annoyance than genuine dislike, Nick wouldn't deny that he still tried to avoid Hodges if he wasn't in the mood.

And today wasn't going to be an exception.

"So," Hodges began; a keen edge to his voice, "I heard about your case." He rolled his chair around to face Nick, resting one of his arms languidly on the table. "And let me just say that ejaculation is _not_ the way-"

"Hodges," Nick said tiredly, running a hand through his hair as he looked at the other man pointedly. The irony of the case lost its humour the moment they discovered exactly what it was that Wilcox was masturbating to. "Were you able to get the results or not?"

"Of course I was." Hodges look briefly affronted before he reached for the printer behind him, fingers picking up a sheet of paper from the tray. "Would you honestly expect anything different from me?" he asked as he gave the paper to Nick.

Nick ignored the question as he took the results, scanning the information quickly. Lips turning into a frown, he raised his eyebrows at Hodges in confusion. "He had _sildenafil_ in his system?"

"Yep." Hodges nodded his head. "And between you and me..." He leaned across the table, moving closer to Nick, who appeared wary at other man's telltale expression and Hodge's sudden urge to whisper. "It had nothing to do with treating pulmonary hypertension or angina pectoris."

Nick's face contorted in disbelief. And despite his mood, he wasn't able to hold back the disbelieving snort that came through. "Wilcox died from trying to get it up?"

"It's actually not unheard of. Rare, but you know Viagra's not the "magic pill" people constantly seem to believe it is." Hodges cleared his throat, straightening his posture when Nick looked at him strangely. "Not that _I_ have any experience with something like that, of course. I mean, I'm still _well_ into my prime, you know."

"…_right_," Nick said slowly, momentarily looking away before taking the initiative to move the conversation in a different direction. He felt a headache coming on; a problem that had already been building up and was no fault of Hodges. Although, that didn't necessarily mean the other man was part of the solution. "But Doc said he didn't have any medical conditions or problems and there were no signs of an allergic reaction. Plus, judging by the fact that he, you know," Nick added as he nodded his head, "had an orgasm, overdosing doesn't seem-"

"That's because he didn't. Or at least there wasn't enough of the substance in his bloodstream to qualify as an overdose when you factor in his age and health."

"What about the fact that he was drinking? Now granted, it wasn't much, but it had to have had some kind of impact or something."

"Alcohol and medicine is like Sanders and hair products – never a good combination," Hodges said wryly, ignoring the annoyed look Nick gave him. "And while the alcohol probably did help speed up the process, in this case it's what your vic took alongside the sildenafil that killed him."

"What was it then, he made trail mix or something?"

"No. There weren't any traces of MDMA, I did find isosorbide dinitrate. It's an organic nitrate that's predominantly used as-."

"A vasodilator, I get it," Nick interrupted as he narrowed his eyes in concentration. "But we _know_ this guy didn't have any medical problems. Why does he even have something like that in his system in the first place?"

Nick doubted Wilcox would have taken the organic nitrates intentionally, but the fact they were in his system could help explain why Acacia Springs was even connected in the first place. Catherine and Sara were there now and as far as they knew, Wilcox didn't have any known relatives in the retirement home. But a place like that was a haven for prescription drugs.

"I couldn't even begin to tell you." Hodges shrugged his shoulders. "But regardless, it's still a bad combination since what both medicines essentially do is lower your blood pressure. Add enough of either one and it can cause severe hypotension. And that could lead to dizziness, light-headedness – you get the idea. And while death is still considered a rare side effect, it doesn't mean it couldn't happen."

Nick didn't speak for a moment, looking over the printout once more before giving it back to Hodges. "Is that it?" he asked. He put a hand inside his pocket, fingers wrapping around his cell phone.

"More or less, _but_," Hodges said quickly before Nick had the chance to walk away. "I will tell you one thing."

"What?" Nick asked; no small amount of irritation in his voice as he looked up from dialing a number on his phone's keypad.

"If your vic _was_ murdered, then he must have had a part in it or something."

"Then, it wouldn't be murder anymore," Nick replied carefully, unsure of what Hodges was trying to say.

"I'm not saying he did it intentionally but just know that in order for these nitrates to be effective…they can't be crushed."

"So, you're saying…"

"They have to be chewed or swallowed whole."

* * *

Greg looked at Grissom patiently, the older man looking over the Harrison's bank records Warrick managed to subpoena earlier. It was a long shot in Greg's mind, but Grissom seemed pretty adamant that the Harrison's account activity would be the turning point in the case. That is, if it had anything to do with trafficking at all. But Greg pushed aside his own doubts in lieu of Grissom and Warrick's experience.

However, he did ask Nick about it last night. And he was surprised to find that the other man seemed to be more knowledgeable about the subject than he would admit. For years, human trafficking and smuggling had been a problem widely unreported in Texas; mostly involving the exploitation of illegal immigrants from Mexico. Nick said he only a few run-ins when he worked as a cop for the Dallas PD, before he became a CSI. And he reluctantly told Greg that the situation there was just as bad, if not worse than in Vegas.

_"I remember there was this one woman. She didn't speak any English, but that wasn't too rare in Texas, you know." Nick smiled softly, a pained expression briefly crossing his face. "She was real sweet and a maybe a little younger than I was then."_

_Greg sat on the bed silently, legs crossed and hands in his lap as he waited for Nick to continue; the other man still in the middle of changing his shirt. _

_"When they first found her, she wouldn't let anyone touch her, wouldn't let anyone near her until the second day – the day I met her. And for some reason…for some reason she would only talk to me." Nick shook his head. "She told me it was because I had kind eyes. Can you believe that?" he asked, turning to Greg as he sat on the edge of the bed._

_Greg didn't think it was that hard to believe but knew the question was more or less rhetorical._

_"But she'd been working for this one guy who smuggled her into the country…" Nick released a bitter laugh. "She'd been working for the bastard for three years on the promise that one day she'd be able to see her two year-old son. But it turned out he was killed as soon as she made it into the States."_

_Nick was now supine on the bed, hands propped beneath his head and gaze turned to the ceiling. "You always hear about that bond between a mother and child, but I never really understood it until then. I'd never seen someone break down and cry before." He paused before softly saying, "Not like that."_

_"Did you ever catch the guy?" Greg asked tentatively, unprepared for the derisive smile Nick sent his way._

_"What do you think?"_

After that, Greg laid himself down and didn't bother trying to ask again. Nick didn't want to talk about it anymore and that was fine. Greg wasn't going to be one who made things uncomfortable between them, again. Not for something work related, at least.

Yet, Greg knew it was more than just that. Nick's case was turning out to be more problematic that it initially appeared and the other man was becoming more irritable because of it; his past coming into play. But Greg didn't question something he already knew. It was simply a part of Nick he'd already accepted a long time ago. And even though he wasn't sure how to approach what happened to Nick as a child, it was clear how it affected how the other man when it concerned certain cases.

Though, Greg didn't feel bad asking Nick about his time in Dallas. Nick didn't bring it up before and Greg was usually receptive whenever that happened, but he'd barely been able to repress the curiosity that wanted him to push Nick further.

On a competent level Greg could say that he could grasp the concept, but he'd never really thought about human trafficking in earnest. The most exposure he had was limited to hearing about a case the team worked last year that had to do with Russian mail-order brides; when he was involved with the preliminaries of the Sherlock case. And even then, Greg knew it wasn't the same.

"And unless she was adopted or the Harrisons were her guardians," Grissom said intently, his voice breaking Greg out of his musings. He pointed to the monitor in front of them, a picture of a driver's license on the screen. "It's highly unlikely that she's related to them."

Warrick was standing behind them, hand resting on the back of Greg's chair as he looked over the younger man's shoulder. "She also doesn't have anything criminal on file. The only reason she's even in the system is because of an internship she took some time during her junior year at UNLV."

Greg looked between Warrick and Grissom in confusion. "So, how is she even connected to the Harrisons?"

"Evidently," Grissom began, "they were transferring funds to her account."

Greg took a closer look at the picture, taking in the woman's dark complexion and the short hair that framed a somewhat babyish face. "What kinds of funds are we talking about, here?"

"In the thousands," Grissom said, peering at Greg from above the frames of his glasses. "And all within from the first two weeks of September."

"Right before the Harrisons went missing," Warrick continued. He let out a low whistle. "That's a whole lot of money at one time for a student in college."

"That's a lot of money at one time for anybody," Grissom countered.

Greg looked at Grissom sceptically. "But I still don't get it, though. What does she have to do with trafficking, then?" If anything, Grissom was persistent, and it wasn't like him to suddenly lose interest in a particular angle of a case.

"Possibly nothing at all," Grissom confessed somewhat grudgingly. "But as of right now…it's the only lead we've got."

* * *

Nick looked at the man sitting in front of him thoughtfully.

It didn't take long for Sophia to find David Masterson, the man Susan Wilcox was having an affair with. After Sara and Catherine went to the retirement home and discovered a trail of missing patients' prescriptions pills, including isosorbide dinitrate, it wasn't hard to make a connection. The staff at Acacia Springs admitted they didn't notice the discrepancies until recently, but were able to correlate them with the time Masterson began working there. But unfortunately, that wasn't quite enough incentive to bring him in for questioning.

However, Masterson was already in the system for a breaking and entering charge that was eventually dropped for unknown reasons. It happened when he was a minor but was what allowed them to take him into custody, anyway.

Still, Nick had a hard time picturing what someone like Susan Wilcox saw in the man. He wasn't much to look at; brown hair and brown eyes, but no features that immediately stuck out in Nick's mind. He would have been tempted to say he was average at best if Masterson didn't look so cagey, as well. And while he knew the signs to watch out for in a possible culpable suspect, Nick was almost unnerved by just how conspicuous the man appeared.

Either Masterson was a really bad actor or he was just plain guilty.

"That's a nice ring you have there, Mr. Masterson," he finally said, following a period of silence that was obviously doing more than simply distressing the other man.

"Uh, my ring…" The nervousness was evident in Masterson's voice. His gaze was erratic, eyes constantly moving in different directions as he continued to tap his fingers against the edge of the table. "Thanks," he managed to stammer out.

"Mind if I ask you where you got it?" Nick shared a knowing look with Catherine before turning back to Masterson.

"…Nowhere special."

"I don't know," Catherine said; her voice tinged with doubt. "Nice ring like that...it had to be from somewhere. What do you think, Nick?"

"Can't say I-"

"Susan made me get it," Wilcox suddenly interrupted. There a slight pause until he sighed heavily, the tension in his body disappearing as a noticeable relief appeared on his face. "She made me finger the stuff from the geriatric place."

_Geriatric place_, Nick silently mouthed to Catherine, who could only mirror his incredulous expression. It wasn't that he didn't know what it meant, just that Masterson saying it took him by surprise. Although, it did give more insight into how Masterson truly felt about the retirement home; possibly using it as a means to get easy access to drugs. At this point, the only evidence they had was circumstantial at best, but they were only looking for a confession from Masterson.

"And what about the other prescription medication missing from Acacia Springs – You take those, too?" But if Masterson did admit to stealing the isosorbide dinitrate that killed Wilcox, there was a good chance that he took other drugs, as well. And while Nick wasn't too worried about it right now, he did want to make Masterson aware that they had some idea of what else he was doing.

Because if push came to shove, they could at least get him for that if not for Wilcox's murder.

The guy would probably crack over that, too, anyway.

Masterson was silent for a few seconds, eyes darting between Nick and Catherine before quickly saying, "Susan made me do it. She told me she wanted to settle some kind of thing between them."

"You mean _you_ wanted him out of the picture for good," Catherine suggested. "That's why you took the pills and-"

"Yes." But taking notice of what he said Masterson shook his head fervently. "I mean, _no_. They didn't spend that much time together anyway, so why would I care? I only spent time with Susan because she was pretty. She wanted _me_, and even I know that I'm not much so I definitely wasn't going to turn that down. That and the fact that she was a _really_ good fu-"

"So," Catherine began, coughing slightly. "What about the phone call to Wilcox's room we traced back to Acacia Springs?" She continued at Masterson's blank look. "What – You thought we wouldn't be able to trace that back to you?"

"I swear I never set foot in that hotel."

"And you weren't in Susan Wilcox's room last week?" Nick asked dully, knowing Masterson was the man he caught a glimpse of through Susan's door.

"Except for _those_ times, yeah, but that doesn't mean I went in her husband's room."

"What about the phone calls, then? The ones placed _from_ the retirement home to Wilcox's room?"

"I was in Acacia Springs calling _her_. I told her to just crush the chewable tablets I gave her and put it in his drink or something. That way, it wouldn't have that much of an effect on him."

"You're saying you gave the drugs to Susan Wilcox so she could give them to Thomas Wilcox?"

"Exactly," Masterson agreed, leaning over as he placed his hands back on the table. "And I swear I didn't kill her husband, all right."

"Oh…" Catherine nodded in understanding. "So, you already know that Thomas Wilcox is dead?"

"Yeah," Masterson replied hesitantly. "But wasn't it already on the news or something?"

Nick shook his head, the corner of his mouth slightly lifting. "Not this time. But nice try, though," he said, a mocking kind of encouragement in his tone.

"Look, I only gave Susan a few pills from my stash. I don't claim to be a doctor, but I know it wasn't supposed to be enough to do anything but make him dizzy – That's what she said she wanted and I only gave her enough for that."

"But unfortunately it was," Nick's admitted, what Hodges said earlier about taking organic nitrates coming back to mind. If what Masterson said about telling her to crush the pills was true, it suggested that Susan Wilcox purposely didn't adhere to the man's instructions. It didn't excuse Masterson, but it did make more sense for Wilcox to accept medicine from his wife rather than the man she was sleeping with, which also meant that Wilcox had probably seen his Susan sometime during his stay at the Venetian.

Catherine leaned back against her chair, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear before crossing her arms. "And Susan told you she'd give you a ring in exchange for the pills, right?" Catherine added. "Unless it was just-"

Masterson cut her off with a snort. "I don't know about Susan. I mean, I like her and all but just not like that, you know?"

"But didn't she tell you the ring belonged to her husband?"

"_Yeah_," Masterson said, looking at Nick and Catherine somewhat brashly. "And I was going to pawn it."

* * *

"Never thought I would actually miss college, you know," Greg said, dodging a student that almost ran into him but not able to escape the not so gentle nudge of a heavy backpack against his side.

Warrick gave Greg a questionable look as they continued to manoeuvre their way down the dorm hall. "Really? The way you tell it…"

"Yeah, but it just seemed like one of those appropriate things to say." Greg gave Warrick a cheeky grin, the smile widening when the other man turned away from him. "Second time I've been here in less than month, though."

"Won't argue with that."

Greg only gave a slight nod of his head.

"Here it is, room 406," Warrick said as they stopped in front of a door with a dry-erase board hanging from it. The name _Megan_ was written on it in bold red ink, followed by various notes of differing handwriting scribbled beneath it.

Greg spared a quick glance to other man before knocking on the door. "Megan Peterson?"

"Hold on, I'm coming" came a muffled reply from inside of the room. However, he and Warrick didn't have to wait long until Megan opened the door, stepping out of the room and closing the door behind her. If she was surprised by their appearance, the expression on her face didn't show it.

Despite seeing her picture beforehand, Greg didn't know what he'd been expecting or why he even had this preconceived notion of her. Yet, he couldn't say that it didn't unnerve him that she looked so young. And he didn't think it had anything to do with her height compared to his.

But maybe he was just getting older.

"Yes?" she said, covering her mouth as she began to yawn; the action prompting Greg to do the same. "Sorry, I've been up all night studying so I'm not exactly in the best state of mind."

Warrick held out his badge briefly, flashing it at Megan before closing the wallet. "I'm CSI Brown and this is CSI Sanders," he said, slightly nodding his head in Greg's direction. "We'd like to ask you a few questions concerning your connection to Nathan and Carol Harrison."

"I guess you can, but it's not as if I know them personally."

"Well, it had to be personal enough if the Harrisons transferred more than ten thousand dollars to your bank account," Greg pointed out. "And they did it on more than one occasion."

Altogether, it wouldn't have seemed so suspicious if Megan claimed to know the Harrisons in some facet. But it still sounded pretty peculiar for a college student to be receiving such a large amount of money at one time. That was a pattern usually associated with a hitman or at least someone orchestrating something similar. His own familiarity barred, while Greg had heard of taking the odd job or two during college, he wasn't sure where murder and arson may have come in.

Still, Dawkins didn't mention seeing anyone else when the Harrisons left that night. But then again, Dawkins had already lied before.

"I've never met them in person if you want to be more specific," Megan continued. "To be honest, I don't even know what they look like."

Warrick didn't seem dissuaded by her response. "Do you have someone to account for your whereabouts the morning of the seventeenth?"

"Last Saturday?" Megan straightened her glasses. "I was doing damage control on a horde of drunken freshman from the night before. I'm the new RA and the beginning of the year is never the easiest. You can ask anyone in the hall, but I doubt many would remember much of it." She looked at her watch. "It's what, almost noon? The only reason any of them are even up today is because there's a mandatory freshman assembly outside.'"

Greg decided not to comment about her nonchalance in regards to the underage drinking. It would be a needless sentiment about something most people were already aware of. "So, the Harrisons must have been feeling really charitable if they didn't even know you."

"Not really." She shrugged. "I'm just a vehicle to transfer the money to someone else. So in essence, all of it wasn't mine."

"You mean you've done this before, then?" Warrick asked, tilting his head slightly.

"Maybe once a month, but I probably do it twice a month at the most."

"Who do you send the money to?"

"To be honest, there's just an account number and the name Baitu to go by. I only have a few linguistics classes to back me up, but I'm pretty sure it's Chinese in origin."

"And how did you meet this…_Baitu_," Greg asked, trying to emulate Megan's pronunciation of the name.

"I found out about it online, and at first I thought it was spam, you know. Though, I don't know how anyone would fall for something that alternated between capitalisation within words and when those words weren't even spelled correctly – but that's a different story."

"What made you think this was any different?" Warrick asked.

"Well, first it sounded too good to be true, like all those other claims. Aside from presentation, it looked like another one of those get rich quick schemes. But I kept finding it on different job sites; the big ones like Hot Jobs, Craig's List, CareerBuilder and none of them requiring me to spend anything to make a quick buck. I just had a feeling that something about it was legit and turns out it was."

"And you just took to it like that?"

"I did do a couple of background checks. I have a few friends who are good with that kind of stuff and nothing seemed illegal. We traced the account back to somewhere in Europe, but we don't think the money really ends up there. I don't doubt that your people are good, but I know people who are even better and if they couldn't get a stable trace…"

Greg nodded. "Well, it would still be helpful to have any copies of the transfers you made, account numbers, and-"

"Right here," she said as she retreated back into her room, leaving the door ajar. "Again, it seemed legit. Plus, I really couldn't pass up the opportunity for something that paid that well and didn't mean I had to sacrifice my school work."

"Ever heard of shooting the messenger?" Warrick asked as she came out of the room, a manila folder in hand.

"Frankly, I never intended to hide anything. Still don't. I keep soft and hard copies of anything that has to do with my finances, even receipts." She handed the folder to Warrick, who accepted it somewhat warily. "It just makes it easier for you, right?"

"Yeah, but…" Greg began, looking at Megan with something akin to concern. "Aren't you worried about this getting back to you? I mean we were able to find you and-"

"Oh, I doubt this will put me in a questionable position." She shook her head. "My…_employer_ knows and doesn't hold me responsible. Then again, he doesn't disclose more than necessary to get the job done."

Warrick released a derisive snort. "So you say."

Disturbed by Warrick's voice and the implications behind it, Greg tried to think about how Megan seemed sure that her employer was a male. It may not have been much in the grand scheme of things, but Greg was ready to hold on to any detail he could, no matter how small. "You said your employer's a "he"…have you spoken to him before?"

"I usually get instructions by mail with no return address. I'm not sure if it was the guy behind everything, but last summer I did speak with someone when we were first finalising arrangements. I would give you the number, but it was just from a payphone off of Boulder Highway."

Warrick narrowed his eyes at her. "And you didn't even think to question any of it at this point?"

"Being the middleman isn't illegal," Megan retorted, that fact that Warrick was looking down on her not an intimidating factor. "They didn't tell and I didn't ask because I wasn't going to assume a position of accountability." Megan shrugged. "Shady maybe, but it's an acceptable means to an even better end; especially considering how much money grad school's going to be."

She sighed when Warrick didn't waver in his gaze. "Look, I've taken the moral high ground for the majority of my life. Trust me when I say I already know it won't get me where _I_ want to go." She didn't break eye contact with Warrick, crossing her arms as she leaned against her doorframe. "I got accepted into Yale, you know. And it _wasn't_ by playing the nice girl. Besides, everyone walks the fine line once in a while. We wouldn't be human if we didn't."

"But did you know you could be supporting child trafficking?" Greg intervened before Warrick had a chance to say anything. The tension between the other man and Megan was palpable and was making Greg feel more than just a little uncomfortable.

She cocked her head to the side. "Funny enough, I wrote a paper on something that mentioned that for my woman's studies class last semester; female infanticide in third world countries."

Warrick took a step back, the tone in his voice similar to disappointment. "And then you're dealing with something like this."

"Mr. Brown, Mr. Sanders...it's a sad world we live in. I won't deny that but sometimes – sometimes you have to play the game in order to be able to change the rules." She sighed again, almost pained by her own admission. "Is that all you need?"

"Yeah, that's all." Warrick nodded; an indisposed understanding in his expression. "We'll keep in touch if we have any more questions."

"Wouldn't expect otherwise," she replied, about to turn around when Greg said her name.

"What are you going to study at Yale?" he asked before Megan placed her hand on the door handle, his voice seeming to reverberate in the empty hall despite the soft tone he used.

She paused before slowly turning around, her mouth forming into a small smirk that reflected the gleam in her eyes.

"Criminal law."  


* * *

_Honestly, I'm a bit suprised at myself because normally I write rather quickly (even though the chapters are progressively becoming longer). However, I'm a little anxious when it comes to this; finding my free time spent researching for this monster and writing other things I'd otherwise be procrastinating, as well. But I am intermittenly working on other chapters and will try to write more if only because I wish to complete this as soon as possible...before the seventeenth if I can._

_On a side note, I'm not going to say what Baitu means because then I'd feel even more corny and abstruse than I do now. I also took artistic liberties with Megan's situation, but only since the show's writers aren't exactly faithful to reality, either. That's my excuse for now. But I couldn't care less because I really did **love** writing Megan._

_Oh, and just out of curiousity, did anyone actually yawn after reading that particular scene?_

_So, thank you for reading and thank you to **Brieze**, **silverrayne621**, **DemonUntilDeath**, **LaughableBlackStorm**, and **Andrew-Squee** for reviewing._


	4. Part Four

_And if you go chasing rabbits…_

--

"Mrs. Wilcox-"

"No, I think you're the one who doesn't understand."

Nick lifted his eyebrows at Susan's voice; face distorted in a confusion that certainly wasn't there before. He leaned into his chair, weight uncomfortably supported by the metal backing as he crossed his arms.

"If the evidence supports-"

"No," she interrupted, holding up a hand that caused Nick to toss a curious glance to Catherine. "You're trying to tell me I _killed_ my husband when I wasn't even there when he died? I was in the pool that morning – _all_ morning – and I don't know where you even got the idea that I was even capable of doing something like that."

"We have someone who can place you in your husband's room before he died," Nick countered.

"Listen and listen carefully," Susan said, lowering her voice before settling for a brief pause. She leaned over the table, resting her elbows on the dulled surface as her gaze moved between Catherine and Nick. "I did _not_ kill my husband."

Nick nodded slowly, noting that Susan had yet to deny that she was in her husband's room. It was more than likely she was simply avoiding the truth, but at least it didn't seem like she was lying this time.

"Maybe not intentionally, but we have reason to believe you had a hand in his death," he said, referring to organic nitrate tablets they found in a bottle of B12 from Wilcox's suitcase; the same ones that were in his bloodstream. Since there were only two or three tablets among the nearly full bottle of vitamins, it was pretty unlikely that Wilcox placed them there himself. Moreover, they also found another set of prints on the bottle that weren't Wilcox's, which Nick had a strong suspicion belonged to Susan.

"Look, I may have cheated on Thom, but that doesn't mean I killed the man because of it. For the last time, he even knew what I was doing and didn't even say anything about it."

Catherine merely shrugged her shoulders, nonchalant in her rebuttal. "Doesn't mean he couldn't have changed his mind. The idea that you're with another man…wouldn't think that'd make any husband too happy."

Susan sat up in her chair, exhaling in exasperation. "I already told you I couldn't care less about the man," she said, though Nick thought otherwise by the fact she still continued to call her husband _Thom_.

"Which made it easier to look away from his death," Catherine added, intervening before Susan had a chance to speak again. "Especially if you're slipping organic nitrates in his vitamins."

"What?" Susan asked, voice wavering a little. "What are you talking about?"

"No reason to be shy now," Catherine said, intertwining her fingers as she leaned further across the table.

"You see," Nick clarified, "we did a little more digging in your husband's things and found a bottle of B12 that had more than just vitamins in it. We also found another set of prints on the bottle other than those belonging to your husband. " he added, purposely omitting the fact that the prints weren't yet identified and the possibility that the prints didn't necessarily have to be recent.

Susan turned startled eyes towards Catherine. "How-"

"You tell us."

Nick nodded in agreement. "Especially, if you claim you really didn't want anything to do with him."

Susan pursed her lips, withholding from saying anything until Catherine spoke again.

"David already confessed to helping you."

Susan looked between Nick and Catherine and the officer behind her before sighing and finally relenting. "All right, but I just wanted to scare him a little. I'll give you that much. And even David said it wasn't enough to kill him. Obviously, it wasn't something that would have-"

"Only if you crushed the tablets," Nick interrupted. "Only you didn't crush them before you tried to hide the pills in his vitamins."

"I was telling truth when I said I wasn't expecting him here because I wasn't, okay," she said irritably. "He was supposed to be on a trip to one of those get rich quick money schemes in some backwater city in Maryland. So, if anything, I was surprised when I saw him on the way to the room where I was supposed to meet with David."

"Surprise aside, how'd you even get access to his room in the first place?"

Susan placed a hand on the side of her face, appearing wary before she decided to answer. "I saw that he was staying in our honeymoon suite…well, the room we were in during our honeymoon at any rate," she added as an afterthought, seemingly reluctant to continue. "And I can't say that I wasn't more than just a little upset."

Nick ignored the hypocrisy in her statement. "That still doesn't explain how you had access to the room if the two of you showed up separately."

"He's predictable," Susan said simply. "He's always short of cash, so he uses a credit card that's a joint account with me." She added sardonically, "because his credit's not exactly the best, you know."

"And you just asked for another key?" Nick asked sceptically.

Susan ran a hand through her hair, removing the red strands away from her face. "Yeah, I convinced the clerk I'd lost the one Thom had, and he just gave it to me. Like I said, my name was on the credit card, too."

Catherine looked at her warily. "Was this before or after you asked for the nitrates?"

"Before. And to tell the truth, if I didn't get the key, I wouldn't have done anything. But I did and later that day I went into his room after I made sure he was gone."

Nick uncrossed his arms. "And what, you ransacked his things for a place to hide the nitrates, somewhere where you knew he had a better chance of taking them?"

"I was actually going to change my mind at the last minute, until I saw that…_Viagra_," Susan admitted as she laughed forcefully, the sound echoing in the bare room and harsh against her soft appearance.

Catherine waited for Susan to calm down before speaking. "So, you knew about the fact he took Viagra?"

"Not really, but it wasn't as if I didn't suspect it or at least something like it," Susan answered. "Remember that lack of chemistry I was talking about?" Nick and Catherine nodded. "Well, this was probably part of the reason for it. I'm 25. I have needs that he couldn't fulfill, and I wasn't sure he even wanted to."

Susan snorted and the tone of her voice quickly became sharp and bitter. "And then I had to look at that damned computer. I don't usually bother with his stuff, but I wish he wasn't so lazy and actually took the time to put a password on it. Maybe then I wouldn't have found some naked, blonde bimbo staring at me."

"That's all?" Nick asked, wondering if Susan knew about the child pornography on Wilson's computer.

"What?" She asked disdainfully. "Fake breasts aren't your style?"

Nick ignored the comment, keen enough to see she was more affected by her relationship (or lack thereof) with her husband than she initially implied. "And that's why you eventually decided to put the tablets in there?"

Susan sighed heavily. "I'm not going to deny that it's probably what triggered me. But I just dropped them in there, not really thinking they would have had that much of an effect on him. I mean, there's a big enough difference between chewable tablets and capsules. Even I didn't think he was stupid enough not to pay attention."

Her shoulders sagged before she added. "And I was going to crush the stuff like David told me to, but I thought it would work faster if he swallowed it whole…in the off chance that even he took them at all."

Nick peered at Catherine, not oblivious to the flicker of sympathy in her eyes.

"Couldn't stand that he was cheating on you with a piece of technology, could you?" Catherine said, and Nick wasn't sure if the other woman was trying to goad Susan or not. He and Catherine both knew Susan was by no accounts reserved about the fact she was having a sex with another man, or at least Nick presumed it to just be one.

"And that's why you took the ring, isn't it?" Catherine added.

"I still don't understand why he didn't sell it, but I saw it on the dresser…and took it to give to David just because. Not like Thom would have noticed, anyway. In the end, only his hand and his computer were good enough for him. And even then he still couldn't get it up by himself."

Susan looked thoughtful for a moment, her expression no longer bitter and an almost bored tone coloring her voice. "So, I'm not going to jail for this right?"

Nick withheld from commenting on how quickly Susan's mood changed, instead settling for sharing an incredulous look with Catherine.

"It's not like I actually killed him," she continued. "Because I didn't exactly force him to take it."

"Mrs. Wilcox-" Nick began.

"What about suggestive manslaughter?"

* * *

Greg groaned as he opened another folder. He tried not to think of the rather long drive ahead as he gave an exaggerated sigh, returning to his hunched position in the front seat. The urge to stretch was almost unyielding, cramped legs weakly protesting against the fact he managed to fit himself in the seat without touching the floor.

"You comfortable enough?" Warrick asked.

"Not really," Greg answered, ignoring the teasing note in Warrick's voice. While the idea of hunching in the front seat had somehow (and Greg was still trying to understand exactly how the thought even came to mind) seemed agreeable when he and Warrick first started out on their pseudo road trip, it turned out the position wasn't quite as comfortable on the way back.

"Think you can last for another thirty minutes?"

Greg closed his eyes, making a noise that was some strange combination between a moan and a whine. "Please don't remind me."

Warrick didn't care to have the decency not to snort. "Nobody forced you to sit like that."

Greg nodded, but didn't verbally acknowledge what he Warrick both knew to be true. Still, he was in no hurry to attempt to figure out how to move his legs, which were currently suffering the consequences of poor circulation and the real reason Greg didn't want to move. He would prolong the inevitable for as long as possible.

Or at least until they made it back to the lab.

"Your legs fell asleep, didn't they?" Warrick said, voicing the sentence as more of a statement than a question.

"You know," Greg began, not paying attention to the knowing look on Warrick's face, "I actually did manage to find something."

Warrick immediately became attentive, the teasing in his voice now gone. "Really?"

"Well, according to this," Greg said, rearranging the papers resting on his knees, "the most recent deposit made into Megan's account was on the fourteenth."

"Three days before the fire."

"And Megan didn't transfer the money until the fifteenth, which was the next day."

"What do next day transfers have to do with anything?"

"Nothing, but the fact that Harrisons paid again on the fourteenth means that they don't fit the pattern."

"What pattern?"

"We know there're two deposits correlating to each separate transaction, right?"

"Right," Warrick confirmed. "Going back to what Megan said. But why does that mean the Harrisons don't fit the pattern?"

"Because the Harrisons already made their two deposits on the second and ninth, totaling around the same amount Megan transferred from the other accounts earlier. But the third deposit means the Harrisons paid more."

Warrick narrowed his eyes. "How much more are we talking about?"

"Six thousand more," Greg said appreciatively.

"So, that's what…around eighteen grand total?"

"Not like twelve thousand in couple of days isn't a lot of money either, but yeah," Greg said, trying to sit up more comfortably. "But what I don't get is what made them different that they had to pay that much more?"

Warrick straightened the frames of his sunglasses with one hand, his other still resting on the steering wheel. "Could mean a number of things, but since the other accounts were closed there's nothing we can really do to find out."

Greg frowned, rearranging the papers to place back in the folder. "Is that…is that what people usually pay," he asked hesitantly.

"For what?"

"If there's trafficking involved, is that how much they usually pay for someone?"

Warrick released a heavy sigh. "Honestly, it depends; whether or not we're talking about children and adults, what they're being sold or used for." He continued, ignoring the disgust on Greg's face. "It's not pretty but that's just how it is.

"Can we even be sure?" Greg still wasn't fully convinced their case involved trafficking of any kind and not some prolonged and meaningless chase, even if Grissom was almost certain about it, but everything seemed to be beginning to point in that direction.

"No," Warrick said flatly. "But I can guarantee you that anybody that needs to go through this kind of stuff doesn't want us to know what they're doing."

"So…you think the Harrisons would have closed their account, too? If they had the chance, I mean." Greg asked, reaching over his knees to down the window. He closed his eyes when the breeze lingered over his face, for once grateful Warrick insisted on driving. Or rather that the older man wouldn't let him drive, but it didn't matter to Greg, now.

"Most likely," Warrick answered, putting his foot on the break when the stop light ahead of them turned red. "If the other accounts were anything to go by."

Greg licked his lips, swallowing at the dryness in his throat. There were only three other accounts connected to Megan besides the one associated with the Harrisons, which was opened in Nevada; unlike the former which were opened in Utah, Arizona, and Kansas respectively.

Greg thought it was pretty unusual when Megan, who was the conduit between the transactions, lived in Las Vegas.

"Not if you have something to hide," Warrick countered, making Greg realise he had unintentionally voiced his thoughts aloud. "If they knew they were involved in something illegal, there's a good chance whoever's connected to those accounts probably didn't want the transfers being traced back to them."

"And we can't exactly prove that they had anything to do with it at all, never mind find out who they are." Greg sighed. Other than circumstantial evidence, there wasn't really a reason they could subpoena the other files. There was no way of telling exactly who was involved even with the records of the transactions that Megan had given them. And Greg highly doubted she was the type to withhold information.

Warrick made a noncommittal noise. "And if you think about it, Megan's probably not the only one processing these so-called transactions. It doesn't look good if people are taking the extra steps to cover themselves and then some."

"So we're stuck again," Greg said solemnly. However, the somber mood was quickly broken when his stomach growled. A sheepish smile appeared on Greg's face when Warrick turned to look at him, the other man raising one eyebrow in question.

"You hungry?" Warrick asked coolly, the tone of his voice somewhat inferring that Greg's stomach growling was something he was expecting.

Greg shifted his gaze to the window, glancing at Warrick from the corner of his eye before giving a coy reply.

"…maybe."

* * *

Nick shook his head as he made it out of the interrogation room, nodding to Catherine before she headed in the opposite direction. It wasn't the first time someone inadvertently played a hand in another's death, and neither did Nick suspect that it would be the last. But while it didn't really surprise him that Thomas Wilcox had died because of unfortunate circumstances, he couldn't say he was any more assured by the fact that Susan more or less wouldn't be tried for anything since they couldn't prove she had the prior knowledge about how the nitrates would react taken in conjunction with the Viagra.

And even if she were to be, Nick sincerely doubted the DA would have an easy time of convicting her of something if it got out that Wilson was into child pornography.

He placed his hand on the wall, ready to turn the corner when he heard Sara's voice behind him.

"Hey," she said, and Nick stopped so she could catch up with him.

He acknowledged her with a nod, the beginnings of a greeting on his lips before he noticed the paper in her hands. "What's that?" he asked, pointing to it as she held it up.

"Oh...this is something else." She shook her head, bringing the paper back to her side. "But Jacqui was able to get a match to the second set of prints on the vitamin bottle."

"Already?" Nick looked at Sara doubtfully. He wasn't expecting to get a match so quickly; especially when Susan wasn't necessarily forthcoming when it came to asking for her fingerprints on a voluntary basis. But since she confessed, they could now obtain without any problem. "She's in the system?"

"Yeah, she was involved with illegal possession of marijuana a couple years ago back while she was in college, but the charges were eventually dropped."

"They release why?"

"No, but I'm betting it had something do to with money."

Nick scoffed, pushing off the wall as he began to walk away. "When doesn't it?"

Sara narrowed her eyes at Nick as she matched his pace, but didn't say anything about his comment. "So, I'm guessing Susan already confessed?"

"Yeah, and I think she did the whole thing more out of anger than anything."

"She knew about the child porn?" Sara asked.

"She didn't say anything about it, but I would have been surprised if she did; but only since she didn't have a close relationship with her husband, which is probably why she was angry."

"But I thought she said she didn't care about him?"

"That's what she said, but it doesn't mean she stopped loving him."

Sara let Nick's comment hang, not willing to say more about it. "What I really don't get, though, is how Wilson didn't notice the difference between the organic nitrates and the B12. I mean, there's noticeable different in the size, shape, colour…"

"He wasn't paying attention?" Nick suggested halfheartedly, not really having any other reasoning to explain it.

Sara seemed to accept the answer for now, quickly recovering to a new topic. "What about David Masterson, you think he's going to be brought in with the case or that it's going to be dropped altogether?"

"Probably dropped altogether, but hopefully the retirement home is going to press charges against him. And if not, at least we can get him for stealing and disturbing drugs."

"A fine or a couple of weeks is probably the most he's going to get, though."

Nick grunted, knowing that it was better than nothing at best.

"You going anywhere in particular?" Sara asked abruptly as she continued to walk alongside Nick.

Nick took notice of the fact that she was still following him, suddenly unsure of where he was going and if was even going anywhere. "Unless you're going to do my paperwork for me," he said smiling at her teasingly.

"I have my own, thanks," she said, returning the gesture with a tightlipped smile of her own. She stopped, turning around at the sound of urgent footsteps behind her.

Nick stopped as well when he saw Grissom coming up to them, not sure what to make of the expression on the supervisor's face.

"I need you two to come with me," Grissom said as he pointed at Nick and Sara. He shuffled a large stack of papers to his side as he spoke, his voice leaving no room for argument. "_Now_."

* * *

Greg didn't know whether or not to be grateful or feel troubled when Warrick didn't make him get out of the vehicle; never mind that they went through the drive-through and that Greg should have probably taken the time to stretch when he had the opportunity to do so.

But there was also a part of Greg somewhat anxious by the fact that the other man had paid for him, as well. Of course, it had more to do with the fact that Greg couldn't pay for himself more than anything, but it still felt… odd that Warrick voluntarily covered his share of six dollars without much question and no immediate demands that Greg pay him back at some undecided point in the future.

However, any concerns Greg had because of Warrick's somewhat peculiar behaviour were quickly pushed aside in favour of the reproachful look the older man was currently giving him. And it was a look Greg easily returned with a glare as he took out a pair of wooden chopsticks from the brown paper bag in his lap, making more of a crinkling noise than necessary.

Warrick looked away first, casually switching on the left signal light before turning the steering wheel. "Anything on the floor you're cleaning up," he finally said; each word clear and succinct to Greg's ears.

"Right…right," Greg answered offhandedly. Honestly, he didn't really think he was that messy of a person, or at least he wasn't as messy as Warrick tried to make him out to be. And he wouldn't have had a problem reminding Warrick of his partiality if it weren't so fruitless. Accidentally spilling coffee on Warrick's seat – even if it was really no fault of Greg's and was really Warrick's driving – was apparently enough to make the other man wary any time Greg had food or drinking in a moving vehicle.

But since he felt more hungry than slighted, Greg wasn't going to protest this time. Instead, he closed his eyes, relishing in the taste of shrimp and rice in his mouth; licking any lingering traces of soy sauce and various seasonings from his bottom lip. And after a few more mouthfuls, he could admit he was sated and safely say his stomach wouldn't be growling anytime soon.

"You good to go, now?" Warrick asked before reaching into his own bag, picking up a small eggroll and putting it in his mouth.

"Yeah," Greg replied absently as he moved his tongue over the front of his teeth. "But I've been wondering – Since you seem to be in such a good mood lately…"

Warrick released a somewhat exasperated sigh that Greg took as a sign to continue.

"What was with you yesterday, anyway?"

"You spilled something, didn't you?"

Greg ignored the question, knowing Warrick was trying to avoiding answering the question. Although, it didn't stop him from sparing a quick glance to the floor to make sure he really didn't spill any rice. "With Megan, I mean?"

"Megan Peterson?" Warrick snorted as he reached for his cup, positioning the straw between his lips to take a sip of his soda. "Nothing."

"Didn't look like nothing from where I was standing," Greg said innocently, bringing his own drink to his mouth. "It's funny," he said as he placed his drink back in the cup holder, "that now I can say I understand how Nick feels when he tries to talk to me."

"Greg…"

Greg didn't pay attention to the warning tone in Warrick's voice. "But really, it's not good to keep things bottled up, you know." And neither did he pay attention to Warrick's scoff, either, because it didn't matter that he wasn't exactly the poster child for his own advice, only that he was trying to make a point.

"Take me for example."

"Do I have to?" Warrick asked dully.

Greg grinned as he pointed a chopstick at Warrick, knowing the other man wasn't really upset by his curiosity and was more or less humouring Greg. "Well-"

"And before you answer, remember who paid for your shrimp fried rice."

Greg opened his mouth and then closed it forcefully. "You know that place didn't take cards, and I told you I don't have any cash with me," he said defensively.

"So you claim."

"Warrick…would I ever try to get out of not paying for something?" Greg asked, continuing before the other man had the opportunity to speak. "Okay, don't answer that. But…" Greg trailed off, interrupted by the sound of his phone beeping.

He placed his feet on the mat, ignoring the sharp tingling caused by the blood circulation returning to his legs as he reached in his pocket for his phone. He held his food in one hand, opening his phone with the other; the expression on his face falling as he read the message on the screen.

"Grissom?" Warrick asked, momentarily taking his eyes off the road to glance at Greg.

"Yeah," Greg said, closing his phone with an audible snap. He sighed heavily, the easy atmosphere he felt with Warrick now dissipating.

"What'd he say?"

"He found them."

* * *

Nick nodded to Greg and Warrick as he and Sara took seats on either side of Catherine, not shocked to see that the other two men were already here. He let his gaze linger on Greg, the other man picking up a piece of shrimp with his chopsticks and placing it in his mouth; giving Nick a tired smile before turning to face Grissom when the supervisor sat in a chair at the head of the table.

"So, you're saying the Harrisons are still in Vegas?" Catherine asked, hand rest against the side of her face and elbow propped on the table. "And that they've been here all this time?" she asked again for clarification, her tone relaying her scepticism.

There was a determined gleam in Grissom's eyes, and Nick was undecided on whether or not he could genuinely attribute it to excitement.

He didn't know everything about the case, but from what Greg revealed about it and by watching the toll it was taking on the younger man Nick could say he knew enough to get more than simply a general idea of the situation. And as much as he disliked being cynical, Nick knew this was going to be one of those cases that got away from them, no matter how fervent Grissom was towards it.

But the fact that his case had apparently been solved meant that Grissom would now have the whole team working on this one; something Nick couldn't honestly say he had that much enthusiasm for.

"Yes," Grissom said easily, the older man's voice sharp in Nick's mind and breaking him out of his thoughts. "There was footage of them in the lobby from an attempted robbery yesterday at a Days Inn about ten miles outside of the Strip."

"That's not that far at all," Sara said, peering at Grissom curiously as if she were trying to figure out if he was hiding something from them.

"Not at all," Grissom agreed, "which means they've probably been hiding in Vegas for nearly two weeks."

"Hotel hopping, then?" Greg suggested, shrugging as he placed his chopsticks down and the rest of the team turned to look at him.

"Slumming for them, probably," Warrick added, taking the attention away from Greg. "And we couldn't exactly trace them since they were paying with cash, right?" he asked, looking to Grissom for confirmation.

"Not like they'll run out of it anytime soon," Nick heard Greg murmured while Grissom nodded at Warrick.

Nick sat back quietly, taking in the questioning faces of Sara and Catherine; somewhat grateful he wasn't the only person who was apparently out of the loop. He glanced at the tall stack of papers in center of the table, the same one Grissom had been carrying earlier that held all the information pertaining to the case so far, which uncovered more information than Nick originally expected.

"But now we have a missing couple on the run," Grissom said. "And doing more than just hiding in plain sight."

Catherine raised her eyebrows. "You're suggesting that someone's after them?"

"There's still too much not adding up at this point, and I'm hesitant to rule it out just yet."

"But from who?" Sara asked, her forehead creasing in concentration. Nick wasn't the only one who was keeping up with this case.

"That…_Baitu_ guy?" Greg suggested.

Warrick shook his head. "What for? They paid already."

"And maybe that's why they had to pay more," Greg countered.

Warrick appeared as though he wanted so speak, but kept his mouth close; seemingly not able to come up with anything to say.

"What about the case Ecklie headed a few years back?" Nick said, finally entering the conversation. "The one where they found the little girl in the dumpster?"

He didn't know that exact details of the case, but Nick did remember hearing about Ecklie working it during the first couple of months he spent in the lab in Vegas. It was a hectic time if anything; rushed, desperate and made even more frustrating by the fact that years later it still remained unsolved.

"I remember that little girl…" Catherine said softly. "At first we thought it was a just a sexual abuse case. But no one would claim her and we had no way of identifying who she was."

Sara and Greg looked at Catherine quizzically.

"A couple of years before you guys came here," she explained to them quickly before turning to Grissom. "Other than the fact that both little girls were Asian, do you think there could be a connection between that case and this one?"

"Could be," Grissom said. "And it doesn't hurt to look."

"But wasn't the FBI initially withholding some of the information about that case from us?" Warrick asked. "Something about the traces of meth in her stomach?"

"Nothing I can't say I still don't expect, but hopefully they'll be willing to share it with us now," Grissom admitted resignedly. "It doesn't necessarily fall under FBI jurisdiction just yet, but it's not as if we have enough evidence to actually make sense of anything in the first place."

"Never stopped them from coming before," Warrick said.

Nick withheld from snorting, inwardly agreeing with the sentiment. None of them were really that averse to working with the FBI, but there always seemed to be a trail of miscommunication following in their wake whenever they were involved. And miscommunication more than often led to a lack of information that ended up hindering the investigation of a case.

Sara scrunched her nose. "But we have an interagency _here_, set up specifically for dealing with human trafficking. Aren't they going to be involved in this somewhere along the line?"

"Unless we can know for sure, we just don't have the time and resources to dedicate to cases to like this," Grissom said. "We try to work them while we can; when we have the opportunity."

Nick looked at the stack of papers still on the table, silently agreeing with Grissom. There was a reason why these were the kinds of cases that were often left unresolved. There was usually so much working against them and too much they weren't able to do; ultimately leaving everyone at odds and in a situation that made beating a dead horse seem more productive.

He sighed when he lifted his head, briefly meeting Greg's gaze before quickly turning away.

"And that's why the majority of them fall through the cracks."

* * *

_Hmm...stuff happened and time flew, but I'm still working on this. It's amazing when I honestly know where I want to go with the plot and such. It's just that I need to be in a particular mood to handle writing this. Finicky piece this is._

_But for this chapter, I wanted to do something lighter because this story isn't really that angsty, or at least it isn't supposed to be. But I guess it will soon go along those lines since Nick's case is finally wrapped up and now everybody can focus on the other case, which is good for the direction of the story. No, really, it's actually going somewhere._

_There's not much Nick/Greg interaction (and there won't be until the next chapter), but I'm fine with that because I really enjoyed writing the car scene with Warrick and Greg. And I don't know if I'm going to find anything other than dark humour in this story again._

_Anyway, thanks for reading and thank you to **silverrayne621**, **Andrew-Squee**, **I do have a name**, and **DemonUntilDeath** for reviewing._


	5. Part Five

_And you know you're going to fall…_

--

Greg shivered at the warmth radiating from the toaster. His hand lingered above the two vertical slots,f hues of orange reflecting off the tips of his fingers while he stood in the shadow of the dim lighting in the kitchen.

He began to mentally count to ten, slowly inhaling and exhaling to relax his body. But he only made it to three before a shudder passed through his frame; thoughts of his dream once again coming to mind and a voice frighteningly distinct repeating itself like some disturbing mantra. Almost overbearing, the tone became even more controlled and obstinate in Greg's head.

_"Because I can."_

It was the third one Greg had in two months, but the first dream where he heard any other sounds besides the banging on the wall and the laughter that would always fade away. It was already uncanny to have reoccurring dreams so close to one another, never mind how bizarre the dreams actually were. And while he probably had an idea about what prompted them, Greg tried to keep from thinking too much about something he didn't really remember and something he was still trying to forget.

With a sharp clang, the lever sprang up the same time the toaster turned off. Greg hissed as he caught a waffle in his hand. He juggled it in between his hands as he took a few strides to a small table in the centre of the room, hastily dropping the waffle on a napkin he placed on the table earlier. He rubbed the bottoms of his palms against his t-shirt, clenching his teeth as he tried to ebb the sting of the heat on his skin.

Greg nearly stumbled over a chair when he heard a noise coming from outside, unnerved as he quickly turned around to catch the back of a car through the window, red lights painfully vivid in the dark.

He silently collected himself before he reached to turn on the small lamp on the table, the light brighter than the one already turned on over the stove. He cringed when he sat down in the chair, wondering how much noise he'd made and if he woke–

"Is this where you go in the middle of the night?"

Greg stilled at the voice behind him. He swallowed the lump in his throat at the contrite feeling burgeoning within him, as if he'd been caught doing something wrong. And it was only because he knew why that Greg turned his head away when he heard Nick pulling out a chair from the other side of the table to sit down.

"Wish you told me earlier," Nick said, soft and strained laughter reaching Greg's ears.

But Greg remained impassive to Nick's poor attempt at humour. Instead, he found his eyes closing as his grip on the table began to border on painful. He tried counting to ten again, this time the numbers uttered out loud.

When he reached four, he thought of the waffle on the table, musing about the crumbs he could envision falling off the napkin and whether or not the waffle had already gotten hard and cold. Greg didn't like it that way, when the waffle was too crunchy. He liked his waffles crunchy as much as he liked having a panic attack, which was silly because he hadn't had a panic attack in a while. And he didn't plan on having one anytime soon, either. Yet, Greg could still feel his breath quicken. And then he felt like he was beginning to lose himself, like he was falling and–

"Greg."

But Nick was still here…Nick was still here and Greg could somehow anchor himself to the other man's voice; quiet and composed. It was a constant, something stable and almost like that old prescription bottle that was still lurking in the cabinet under the sink in the bathroom. Though, Greg didn't want to have to resort to using the medicine again. Not when he was doing so much better without it. Because he didn't want it, didn't need it, and–

"Greg," Nick said again, voice still unruffled and breaking Greg's train of thought.

Greg looked at the clock on the wall to realise that only a few seconds had passed. "Yes?" he answered almost absently, but his voice slow and cautious. He took his hand off the table and placed it in his lap, fully aware that Nick was conscious of his every movement. The other man was still watching him, – analysing him, scrutinising him – and Greg wondered how much willpower it actually took for Nick not to ask about what made Greg come to the kitchen this late at night.

Over the table, he saw Nick begin to extend his hand to him; the other man changing his mind at the last minute and replacing the gesture with a sigh; the only break in the silence between them.

Greg had no intention to talk about why he was here; his dreams. He was reluctant to do so then and maybe even more so now that he started having them again; especially when he knew Nick had his own share of nightmares to deal with, too.

Just because Nick was able to talk about being buried alive didn't mean that Greg was ready to talk about being blind and wandering alone in a room. It was trivial anyway, something frivolous that probably meant nothing at all. And, ultimately, some part of Greg still wanted to believe that simply ignoring his dreams would make them go away.

Greg ran a hand through his hair, the action an attempt to take away from the quiet in the room. He felt nervous all of a sudden, more so than he'd ever been with Nick in a long time. And he needed something to focus on, something to help get his mind back on track.

"Why didn't you talk about the dumpster case before yesterday?" Greg asked hurriedly. It was the first thing that came to mind and he hoped the shift in conversation would deter Nick's attention away from him.

Nick groaned as he rubbed his temples. "I wasn't thinking about it then," he said patiently, though Greg could still pick up the slight irritation creeping in his voice.

Greg didn't doubt that Nick caught on to the fact that he was trying to evade whatever questions the other man wanted to ask; it was something Greg had done many times before . And Greg would have laughed at the irony of chastising Warrick for the same thing yesterday if the situation wasn't so serious today. He didn't think Nick would appreciate it anyway.

"Does it even matter now?" Nick asked; his gaze unrelenting and still fixed on Greg.

Greg nodded, content to have something else to think about it; something to replace the uneasiness in his mind.

Nick yawned, covering his mouth before replying. "I can't even remember what case I was working on when I first came here. But that's all I would ever hear about…Ecklie's case." Nick shrugged. "And the only reason it ended up cold was because all they found was the little girl in the dumpster and a picture of her attached to the shirt she was wearing."

"Were you working with Grissom then?"

"Yeah, me and Warrick were with him, but Catherine was with Ecklie. She probably remembers more about it than me."

"Yeah, but–"

"Is that what your nightmares are about?" Nick asked suddenly.

Greg looked at Nick in surprise, making eye contact for the first time during their conversation. He knew the other man probably knew about his dreams or suspected when they first started a couple of weeks ago. That much was inevitable. Greg just hadn't expected the other man to confront him about it, at least not so directly.

But maybe that was inevitable, too.

"No," Greg said.

"No?"

Greg shook his head, trying not to think about the weariness and apprehension in Nick's voice. While he did have an idea where his dreams may have stemmed from, he still had trouble trying to figure out exactly what they were about; they were too vague for any kind of immediate understanding. Though, he conceded that he probably understood their meanings on a subconscious level, but that was something Greg wasn't too keen on exploring anytime soon.

However, it didn't have anything to do with their recent case. He already admitted that the case was affecting him, but that was a given; it was getting to everybody.

"It's…it's something else," Greg said.

Nick smiled sardonically, the expression marring his face in a manner that was unfamiliar to Greg. "Are you even going to tell me what they're about then?" he asked, his tone suggesting the question was more obligatory than sincere.

Greg's face was blank momentarily before he frowned. "You know that's not fair, Nick."

"And you think this is fair for me?" Nick retorted. "I can't keep giving all the time. It's not supposed to work that way, Greg."

"I just don't want to talk about it now. Later, but not–"

"It's always later with you."

Greg narrowed his eyes at the accusation directed at him. "Well, maybe I'm still not used to it, okay?" he said defensively.

"What's there to get used to?" Nick asked incredulously as he rose from his chair, signaling his confusion with a slight wave of his hand. "You just…_talk_. Tell me what's bothering you. I tell you–"

"Well, not everyone can be you, all right," Greg said, voice becoming tinged with anger. "We all can't be Nick. We all can't be this–"

"But I'm not asking you to be me. I don't want you to be me," Nick said, a sense of urgency in his voice as he moved to stand next to Greg. He put his hand on the back of Greg's chair, leaning over the other man and bringing their faces closer together. "All I want...all I need," he began slowly, "is for you to–"

"I never said I was perfect. I never said I could be perfect. And I–" Greg whispered harshly, stopping abruptly. "And I can't be… I mean, I'm not…" he trailed off, taking a deep breath when he realised that Nick was just trying to bait him, trying to get a reaction out of him. He felt his body deflate, what little anger he had dissipating and a sense of lethargy beginning to settle in despite the fact that Nick was still standing over him.

"Why do I have to _force_ it out of you every time, Greg?" Nick said tiredly. "Why can you never just talk…" he sighed, taking a few steps back. "…to me?"

_I don't know_, Greg wanted to say. They were the only words he could say, was able to say, but Nick wasn't going to give him the chance to say them this time.

"You know what…just forget it, Greg. Don't say anything."

Greg bit his bottom lip when Nick turned to leave, the other man scoffing as he disappeared from the kitchen. The unspoken words Nick would never say aloud reverberating in Greg's mind.

_Like you always do._

* * *

Nick crouched down to look under the bed. He scrunched his nose as he lifted the bed skirt; the musty scent from the carpet assaulting his nostrils. The whirr of Warrick's camera sounded behind him, and Nick placed his flashlight in front of him; slowly moving the light over the darkened area beneath the bed.

Like the rest of the room, it was bare; with no sign of the Harrisons having even occupied it. But Nick couldn't say that he was surprised to discover nothing that could be merited as evidence.

He sighed as he removed himself from underneath the king-sized bed, careful not to bump his head on the metal bed frame. He rubbed the inside of his wrist on the front of his jeans, the movement against the dark denim creating a friction that almost burned. He and Warrick had been in the hotel room since nine – four hours ago – and he was beginning to think the place was just another blind lead. Besides a receipt and the security footage from the hotel, they only had one witness who claimed to have seen the Harrisons. But it didn't take Sofia long to find out that the desk clerk wasn't exactly the most observant person.

He put the small flashlight back in his kit, ignoring the slight perspiration in between his fingers and the curious glance Warrick was sending his way. The latter of which was only one in a series of glances that Warrick had been giving him today, but Nick was glad the other man didn't try to bring up any concern he may have had in conversation; even if Warrick did realise something wasn't right. There were already too many things wrong in the world, anyway.

"You find something?" Warrick asked, straightening the camera strap around his neck.

"Nope." Nick shook his head. "You find anything, yet?"

Warrick snorted, apparently sharing the same amount of optimism concerning the case as Nick. "I'm going to go check out the bathroom. See if there's anything they left behind."

Nick tilted his head in agreement, refocusing on his examination of the bed as Warrick left the main area of the room. Nick had already checked the bathroom earlier, but it didn't hurt to have someone else to check again. And maybe it was because neither of them was too convinced they'd actually find anything that made them a little desperate and maybe even reluctant to leave without finding anything at all.

However, Nick wasn't going to complain about spending more time here. Because it gave him an opportunity to concentrate his efforts elsewhere and step away from the pervasive feeling that his personal life was somehow becoming more and more synonymous with his professional life. But he'd be deluding himself if he said that it was solely because of Greg, or rather because of his relationship with Greg.

Still, he wasn't going to think about it now. He wanted nothing more than to disregard the sinking feeling in his stomach and overlook the fact that the one person he wanted to talk to wasn't ready to talk back. And for once, Nick was just going to make it easier on himself and pretend that there wasn't this notion of everything falling apart around him.

Yet, it wasn't as if he didn't have better things to do; or at least something more productive than finding semen on the lamp shade. Truthfully, it wasn't the worst thing he'd seen when it came to finding semen samples – including the semen he and Sara found on Wilcox's laptop – but it did serve to reaffirm what he already knew about that cleanliness (or lack thereof) of hotel rooms.

Nick groaned in irritation, the black gloves he wore the only things preventing him from running a hand through what was left of his hair. Aside from evidence of various sexual activities and a large array of fingerprints that he and Warrick collected, Nick was beginning to think there was nothing more to find.

It was nearing the fifth hour and Nick had done everything he could possibly think of as far as the bed was concerned; including looking under the mattress and inside the box springs. The blankets and sheets were folded neatly in the back corner of the room, next to the pillows and the pillowcases on top of the large table by the window and the air conditioner. The mattress was leaning against the entertainment centre that held the TV, on the other side of the room; but Nick was almost on the verge of taking apart the bed frame, as well.

Because it was something to distract him from the temptation to throw what was left of the bed out the window.

He closed his eyes, opening them again as he began to walk toward the window; the maroon curtains already pulled back and revealing the cars in the back parking lot of the hotel. He made a face as he felt a rapid decrease in temperature. The air conditioner was still on. It wasn't cold enough for Nick to want a jacket, but he surmised that he was probably standing beneath a vent.

He looked up and wasn't surprised to find an air vent, but he _was_ surprised to see what looked like a small piece of paper sticking out of it; something probably no bigger than his hand.

Lines on his forehead creasing in confusion, Nick called out Warrick's name as he positioned a chair directly beneath the vent. He put one foot on the soft cushion, holding on to the back of the chair as he carefully lifted himself up. He held his out his hands before he found his balance, extending his arm as he reached for the piece of paper. By the time Warrick came back into the main room, Nick had both feet planted on the floor and a look of disgust on his features.

It wasn't a piece of paper like he initially, but a rather a photograph; a Polaroid of a little girl Nick had only seen once before. However, she looked prettier here, adorable with the small red barrette holding her bangs away from her forehead. Her short hair framed her face and her were cheeks flushed red against skin that wasn't so pale anymore.

But it wasn't the little girl causing Nick's revulsion. It was the photo itself and the way the camera portrayed her; how it captured her. Even with clothes on, she was still being exposed in a manner that sickened him. It was the way she held her arm across her chest, hand gripping her shoulder as if she was forcing herself not to look away from the lens, away from the person who had so much power over her.

Nick inhaled deeply, listening to the sounds of Warrick's footsteps until the other man stood beside him. He continued to look at the little girl, unaware of the slight trembling of his hand until Warrick took the picture away from him.

But it couldn't take away from the sight of the vulnerability that was in the little girl's eyes; something Nick had seen far too many times before.

* * *

It didn't matter that they weren't supposed to have sex against the wall anymore, only that what they were doing right now felt good and that they had more than ample time to worry about the mess later.

Since Greg didn't remember who initiated what and how he ended up against the living room wall with Nick pressing his body against him. But he wasn't going to complain about it because it was better than the hesitant attempts at talking; better than trying to dance around awkward apologies neither of them were really sure really meant anything. And the hardness against his thigh told Greg that Nick felt the same way, too.

He grunted, releasing a gasp when Nick reached to wrap an arm around him. The other man's hand was resting on the back of Greg's thigh, travelling upward to cup his left cheek. His body jolted when Nick began to knead the skin there. The bottom of his jacket was rising above his waist as he felt the tips of Nick's fingers digging through the fabric of his pants.

Then Nick's mouth was against his – a meeting of their lips that was rushed and clumsy – reminding Greg of those rare moments where it felt like Nick had nothing else to lose, nothing else to gain, and would move against him with a kind of reckless abandon that Greg didn't know how to approach.

And Greg couldn't help but shiver when Nick's hand moved to the small of his back; shudder at the cool touch when the hand moved beneath shirt and rested on his waist.

When Nick pulled his mouth away Greg saw a flash of something, an image blurred and white that he didn't have time to make out. He closed his eyes when Nick pressed their groins together, breath hitching at the contact and inconsistency of the friction that followed.

Greg tightened his hold on Nick's arm when the other man kissed his neck, tilting his head upward and letting his arm fall over Nick's shoulder. A moan escaped him when he felt the heat from Nick's breath, and Greg tugged Nick closer, desperate for the warmth he could no longer maintain on his own. He heard Nick mumbling something against his skin, the words indiscernible, negligible, and then suddenly all too clear in his head.

_"Because I can."_

Eyes widening in panic, Greg hurriedly pushed Nick away; not oblivious to the annoyance on the other man's face.

For a moment, he couldn't breathe, couldn't see and could only feel something soft supporting his body. A gloved hand was pinning his arm down as he began to sink into something, a heavy weight hovering above him and pressing him down. But then the moment was gone. Arms were wrapping around him once more and Greg found himself back against the wall in the living room. And Nick's face was front of him, mouth on top of Greg's.

He began to push Nick away again, using his weight to push against the other man's shoulders. "Nick…I–"

"Damn it, Greg," Nick growled, the aggravation clear in his voice. He attempted to kiss him again, missing his lips when Greg turned his head to the side.

Greg narrowed his eyes, fighting to regain some semblance of control when Nick shifted his pelvis against him. "Not…not now, Nick."

"God, it's never now with you."

"Nick, just–"

"I _need_ this," Nick said quickly, almost desperately; an uncertainty seeping into his tone as he tried to bring his body closer to Greg's. "I can't…I need–"

Greg grabbed the back of Nick's head forcefully. "Look at me," he said firmly, tightening his grip when the other man began to shy away; trying to bury his head in the crook of Greg's neck.

"Look at me, Nick," he repeated quietly. His mouth formed into a sad smile when Nick became lax against him; the other man finally lifting his head to look at him. "…okay?"

Greg felt his breathing begin to slow, chest beginning to rise and fall softly. But he could still feel his heartbeat, somehow becoming faster when he saw his expression reflected in Nick's eyes.

He took a deep breath, blinking before he caught the shock on Nick's face, the familiar sense of guilt as the arms that were wrapped around him began to tremble. The other man's mouth parted slightly, lips still quivering when he placed his forehead on Greg's.

"I'm sorry," Nick said softly, voice starting to crack as he loosened his hold around Greg.

But Greg didn't say anything. Instead, he let Nick lean against him; relaxing his own body and allowing himself to rest against the wall.

"I'm sorry," Nick whispered again, and Greg closed his eyes when he felt something wet drop onto his cheek. And Greg ignored the shaking of the other man's shoulders as he continued to clutch the back of Nick's shirt.

"…me, too."

* * *

Nick tried not to focus on the face of the little girl on the screen, looking anywhere else but at the gaze that was jarringly reminiscent of what he saw in Greg's eyes last night; something he really had no desire to see again. But despite trying to concentrate on any discriminating aspects of the enlarged picture, it didn't take away from the fact that it was still there. And trying not to put too much thought into the last few nights with Greg didn't mean they never happened.

Nick was well aware of the mistakes he made in the past; certain choices and decisions that he could only hope he wouldn't make in the future. Because they were the same ones that had almost cost him his job, almost cost him his life, and could possibly take away from his relationship with Greg he'd worked so hard to build over the last few years.

It wasn't until later in their relationship did Nick learn that he had to tread carefully with Greg. But it wasn't a matter of Greg being particularly sensitive to certain things. He wasn't. It was more of Nick figuring out at what times he was allowed to push at those things and knowing when Greg would be ready to push back instead of simply pushing him away.

And Nick was still trying to convince himself that he had somehow managed to deal with it, that he finally had made some sense of that delicate balance. Though, in reality he hadn't. And sometimes he let it show; let it get the best of him and maybe even tried to take it out on Greg. But Nick was only human and could only do so much, could only take so much before he'd feel like the other man was just short of pushing him over the edge.

However, it didn't mean Nick had placed Greg on some pedestal because of it.

And it also didn't mean he'd suddenly overcome his anger. He was upset by not only this case, but with Greg as well. He didn't really mean what he told Greg, that he felt their relationship was one-sided. They both knew it wasn't. But they each had different ways of coping, and Nick knew it was all too easy to forget.

But for some reason it had become that much harder to remember; with the return of Greg's nightmares, alongside trying to deal with his own. Ever since he was found in that coffin, Nick couldn't help think he and Greg had suddenly regressed.

It felt like they were starting for the first time all over again, and Nick couldn't suppress the sense of dread that was building inside of him because of it.

He crossed his arms, placing the majority of his weight on his left foot. Maybe that's why it felt like one of _those_ days, one of those times where nothing was right and everything seemed more than just wrong.

And this was even though the case was actually moving along with the evidence he and Warrick collected yesterday.

Because finding that photo in the room was more than anybody had initially hoped for. Not only was it a confirmation that the Harrison's had been staying at the hotel and were most likely still in Vegas, but it was also the evidence that would actually substantiate the involvement of child trafficking in this case.

The little girl in the picture wasn't all that Nick and Warrick had recognised. The interior of an old, run-down building the picture was taken in was also familiar and turned out to be the same building seen in a picture found a couple of years back; the same Polaroid that was found with the little girl left in the dumpster from Ecklie's case.

The signs Grissom saw earlier were more than evident now, and it almost seemed as if things were finally coming together; appearing less like a leap of faith and part of something bigger, something much more intricate that Nick was still having a hard time trying to conceive.

He unfolded his arms, narrowing his eyes at something indistinct in the far right hand corner on the large screen, even less discernable through the window the girl was standing in front of. From what he could tell, it looked like a white sign, but it was too far away to decipher any wording on it. "Hey, Archie," he said, not taking his gaze away from the screen to look at the man seated behind him.

"Yeah."

"You think you could zoom in on that for me?" Nick asked, pointing to the sign.

"Sure, no problem," Archie said as he nodded his head. His fingers moved quickly across the keyboard and an empty box enclosed the sign, making a thin black border around it. The little girl in the photo was taken out of the frame while the image of the sign was becoming more prominent, the magnification increasing until a set of words was legible.

"Right – Right there," Nick said as he held his hand out, confusion marring his features as he read the surprisingly ornate words on the sign out loud. "Eternal Waste?"

"I think I've seen that sign before." Archie's fingers hovered above the keyboard as he turned to look at Nick. "Isn't that right behind that landfill the EPA's still trying to close down? You know…the one the Republic Service was supposed to clean up," he said, adding the last part somewhat sardonically.

Nick licked his lips. "The one by LV Wash? Sunrise Landfill?"

"Yeah…yeah, that's the one."

"It's not that close, but that means it's not too far away from Lake Mead Parkway, either. It's less than an hour from here but maybe about two miles away from Sunrise."

Archie shrugged. "Well, I remember seeing that sign somewhere a couple of months ago. It was supposed to be a play off Forever Landfill, a pseudo company from the LA-based Heavy Trash."

Nick looked at Archie charily. "Can't say I've heard of it."

"It's basically an anonymous group of people that makes public criticisms about waste and waste management problems."

Nick sighed, trying not to think how much the other man was currently reminding him of Greg. "Archie…where are you going with this?"

"Somewhere you'll want to go, I can tell you that." Archie looked at Nick deliberately. "I'm not sure if they already took it down or not, but with a little bit of work, I can pinpoint the exact location of that sign for you."

Nick raised his eyebrows in interest. He was far from having any qualms with Archie taking a hand in helping find an abandoned building that appeared to be in the middle of nowhere; or at least it didn't appear to be somewhere Nick could immediately place. "How?" he asked.

Archie flashed a wide grin at Nick. "It's on their website."

* * *

Greg looked warily at the picture in his hand; more than noticeably worn. The colouring was almost completely diminished and the edges were bent and nearly frayed. It looked more dated than it should have for something that was taken less than ten years ago.

But he was more attentive to who was in the picture than the picture itself. And more so to the girl who seemed to be peering directly at him; almost making him feel culpable for something he had nothing to do with. But she wasn't the little girl he found under that bed; the little girl whose small fingers wouldn't let go of the blanket she was draped in.

The girl in this picture had longer hair, dark strands falling past her face and stark against the plain white t-shirt she wore. Moreover, she appeared older – much older – yet probably no more than thirteen despite the hardness Greg could see in her eyes. It didn't take much to guess what kind of teacher experience had been to her. Because she looked incisive and fully aware of her surroundings, why she was there; and some of part of Greg almost wished he could ask her himself.

But for now, he only had what was on the bottom of the picture; a pair of numbers written in black ink on the thick white border. And as morbid as it seemed, at least it was a way of identifying her.

"0-2-9 and 7-5-0," he said as he raised his gaze to look at Sara. He gestured his head toward the photo she held in her hand. "What's yours say?"

"2-5-3-1 and 1-2-0-0-0."

"Ever seen something like this before?"

Sara shook her head. "Not until now. And I couldn't even begin to tell you what these numbers could mean."

"You're too good to me, Sara."

"I try." Sara smiled at Greg but frowned when he didn't immediately return the gesture.

"At least we know there's a connection," Greg remarked absently, looking at the picture in his hand once more before his eyes strayed to Sara's photo. "Can I see yours for a sec?"

Sara watched Greg carefully as she handed him the photo; taking note of the way his expression fell when he placed the pictures of the two girls side by side. "Same background, same handwriting…"

"And almost a decade between them," Greg finished. _But pretty much the same circumstances_, he added silently. It wasn't the first time he'd seen either picture; however, it was the first time he'd actually taken a good look at the most recent one. Both pictures disturbed him. Though, there was something especially haunting about seeing the fear so blatant on the younger girl's face.

No wonder Nick had behaved that way last night.

He wasn't going to excuse it but after seeing what Nick found, Greg could say he had a better understanding of why the other man was so upset.

"…out what they mean, yet?"

"Huh?" Greg lifted his head at the sound of Sara's voice, peering at her questioningly.

She looked at him sharply, and Greg smiled sheepishly when he realised he hadn't been paying attention to what she said. "You were saying something?" he asked jokingly, unprepared for the concern on her face.

"Are you okay?" she asked slowly.

"Am _I_ okay?"

"I don't know. Are you?"

Greg bit his lip. "Yeah, I mean I'm fine if that's what you're asking." He paused, a thoughtful look on his face before he said, "Why _are_ you asking?"

Sara shrugged her shoulders. "You just seem…off."

Greg raised his eyebrows. "Off?"

"Well, more than usual," Sara conceded.

"Oh," Greg said with exaggerated understanding. "You mean I seem tired, right? I am...tired, that is."

"You always say you're tired, Greg."

"Because I am," he said, even though he knew she could tell he was evading the underlying meaning of her words. "I know you don't know the meaning of the word 'overtime', but _normal_ people need this thing called–"

"Just don't let it get to you," Sara said quickly.

Greg placed the two pictures in his hand on the glass table that stood between Sara and him. "This case is getting to everybody, Sara," he said quietly. It was the closest he would come to admit to her that something was bothering him, and he had no intention of going any further than that. "And you know I'm not the only one."

"I didn't say you were," she said softly, letting her voice lapse into a stillness that was making Greg uncomfortable.

But he didn't break his gaze with her, fingers moving to grip the edge of the table as Sara's eyes narrowed at him; almost as if she was trying to compel him to say something.

They both stood back at the unexpected knocking on the door, startled when they turned to see Nick standing beneath the threshold.

"They found the Harrisons, and Brass is bringing them in now."

* * *

_I'm hoping this chapter will speak for itself. Yes, it's melodramatic. Of course. That's just me. Although, I already knew the story was headed in this direction. And I did try to build tension in the previous chapters (discreetly), but I'm still not sure it worked out the way I wanted it to. __Well, except with Archie. I liked how his interaction with Nick turned out (much lighter when compared the rest of the chapter). Regardless, this all leads to things in later chapters. Can I call foreshadowing?_

_And as far as the tone of the third scene is concerned, the concept of sex was just used as a device to explore Nick and Greg's...issues (for lack of a better word). But it was kind of fun to write. Plus, I haven't written a crying Nick (even if it was kind of subtle) in a while, so... _

_Anyway, thank you for reading and thank you to **I do have a name**, **LaughableBlackStorm**, **silverrayne621**, **Andrew-Squee**, and **QueenoftheUniverse **for reviewing._


	6. Part Six

_When men on the chessboard get up and tell you where to go…_

--

Nick folded his arms over his chest in an attempt to calm himself. His patience was steadily waning, and he found himself torn between barging into the interrogation room and walking away from the situation entirely.

He wasn't on the case from the beginning, but the last past week had taken more than just a toll on him. And if Nick were truthful with himself, he'd admit he'd practically given up on the case, much less bared any hope of finding the Harrisons. But with the photo he found in the hotel room that was uncannily similar to the one picture linked to one of Ecklie's old cases and the fact that the Harrisons were now in custody, Nick was coming up with more questions than answers.

Sighing, Nick spared a quick glance at Sara's reflection in the two-sided mirror. She was standing on his right, eyes narrowed and lips pressed together at the sight of the people in the interrogation room. They hadn't really spoken much since they closed the Wilcox case, but he knew Sara wasn't happy being on the sidelines, either. Her hands were in her pockets and her stance appeared casual. Yet, her shoulders were tense, and it didn't take much for Nick to realise that being forced to stand idle was eating away at her, too.

It was trait they shared, and considering their backgrounds, it made sense that they had trouble stepping back for things like this, cases that caused them to involve too much of themselves.

He couldn't speak for Sara, but sometimes a small part of Nick wondered if he would have been better off staying a cop or going into another profession altogether.

Even Warrick was more reserved. The other man stood calmly on the other side of him with an expression that remind Nick too much of Grissom, and he could easily imagine the kinds of questions and scenarios running through Warrick's head. But Warrick was good with dealing with situations like this, better than how he used to be while Nick seemed to have gotten worse.

And Greg…

Nick's gaze moved past Sara's reflection and settled on Greg's. He was biting his bottom lip in the same way he always did whenever he was nervous or anxious. His head was slightly tilted to the side the way it did when Greg was trying to figure something out. It looked like he was hugging himself, with his arms crossed over his stomach. If he was shaking, Nick would have thought the other man was cold. But Nick knew it was more along the lines of Greg not knowing what to do with his hands.

Nick was taken out of his thoughts when he heard the slight cough coming from Warrick. He doubted it was aimed at him, but it did make him realise he'd been staring at Greg and spending too much time trying to analyse the behaviour and body language of his colleagues. If they were in a different situation, Nick would have allowed himself to laugh.

Still, in a way, there was something almost comical about the four of them standing outside the two-way mirror. It reminded Nick of the times when he would sit on the stairs with his three older sisters, discreetly trying to squeeze in between his siblings for a place on that one step so he could find out why their brother was in trouble that night.

Though, most of the time, Nick had difficulty eavesdropping on the conversation between his parents and his brother because his sisters would make him sit behind them. Often he found himself confined to the step nearest to the top of the stairs, trying to peer through the back of three heads that blocked any chance of actually seeing what was going on in the kitchen.

Yet, as nostalgic as Nick felt, it didn't change the fact that he was still looking on from the outside. Only this time, it was Catherine and Grissom sitting across from the Harrisons while with Brass stood at the head of the metal table between them. Silence replaced the raised voices of his parents and his brother, and the Harrisons' will not to speak left Nick to deal with his wondering thoughts.

In reality, it's only been a few minutes, but Nick couldn't say he wasn't grateful when Brass finally broke the quiet.

"Normally, I wouldn't have a problem waiting, but even my patience can wear off from time to time."

"We're not speaking without our lawyer," Mr. Harrison said.

"And since you won't accept any of our guys that may take awhile, so, why don't we just clear any misunderstandings in the mean time," Brass suggested. "That way everybody can go home early."

"We haven't done anything wrong," Mr. Harrison protested.

"Apparently, people never do," Catherine said.

"Look, charge us with something or we're leaving," Mr. Harrison said tersely. He made a move to stand, but was halted by Brass' hand placed firmly on his shoulder.

"Have a seat, _Nathan_," Brass said with forced politeness, his tone turning into one of false assurance. "Really, we just need you to answer a few questions."

Catherine leaned forward, arms crossed as she placed them on the table. "Believe me when I say we have more than enough probable cause to charge you with murder."

Mrs. Harrison suddenly became rigid, the hold she had on her husband's hand noticeably tightening. "Murder," she whispered softly. There was a hitch in her voice that didn't go unnoticed.

"Carol," Nathan said quickly, gaze turning to his wife.

"Not to mention running from the cops doesn't exactly help your defence," Brass pointed out as he removed his hand from Nathan's shoulder.

Grissom took off his glasses as he turned his attention to Carol. "If you know something, it's in your best interest to tell us."

"We couldn't have any children."

"Carol, you don't have to-"

But she ignored her husband and continued. "We've been trying since I was 20 and no matter what fertility drugs we tried, what special foods or herbs we bought or how much we prayed – I can't begin to tell you how much we spent seeing specialized doctors.." She paused, closing her eyes and inhaling deeply. "We're getting old, you know. I'm…neither of us or as young as we used to be. And for a while…for a while we gave up."

"Then why did we find that little girl dead your house?" Grissom asked, now looking at Nathan when it seemed like Carol wasn't going to say anything else.

Nathan firmly held Grissom's gaze. "We've been thinking about adopting for a couple of years now and finally decided it wasn't too late, even for people like us. After some research, we found a facilitator who could match us with a child."

"Who was the facilitator?"

Nathan ran a hand through his greying hair. "At this point, I don't even care if I'm pronouncing it correctly, but it was someone named Baitu."

"And let me guess," Brass said, "You've never seen him before?"

If Nathan was surprised at Brass' assumption he didn't show it. "No," he said simply, "and the only contact we had was over one phone call with him and through some guy named Peterson."

Grissom frowned. "And did Peterson handle your transactions with Baitu?"

"Through the computer," Carol clarified, seemingly unconcerned about the fact Grissom knew about her financial records. "But it was safe. He told us it was secure."

Catherine didn't bother to hide the disbelief on her face as she leaned back against her chair. "Why not just go through an adoption agency?"

Nathan laughed loudly, a hollow sound that echoed off the walls. "We didn't want to go through the paperwork, it was easier – who knows?"

"We saw a picture of her," Carol said slowly. "Of course we knew we were treading a fine line, but it somehow seemed more familiar and personable. And she was…" She raised her head, blinking away the moisture gathering in her eyes. "When we saw the picture, she was the most precious thing we'd laid our eyes on and…and I knew it was right. I knew that we couldn't go back, that we at least needed to meet her."

Nathan sighed. "And we were doing the right thing until…"

"Until what?" Catherine said, urging him to explain.

"Nobody's helping those little girls over there," Nathan said, his voice rising. "Their own parents don't want them and sell them on the streets."

"So, it made more sense to kill her?" Brass asked. "Is that how people justify themselves these days?"

Nathan sneered at the mocking quality behind the words. "She was our daughter, and we loved her."

"But she had and still has no legal identity here," Grissom said irritably, annoyance creeping through his voice. "How could you love her if you couldn't even give her a life?"

"We saved her," Carol said resolutely, steadying her voice as tears streamed down her face. "We saved her…we saved her from ending up like _them_." She swallowed the lump in her throat, narrowing her eyes before whispering harshly. "Don't tell us we did anything wrong."

"Didn't do anything wrong?" Grissom asked disbelief.

"We were going to give her a better life!"

"You killed her!"

* * *

Greg jumped when Grissom's fist hit the table, not sure if he was startled by the sound or the abruptness of Grissom's action. It wasn't that he'd never seen Grissom angry before nor was he oblivious to how this case was affecting the older man. But Greg was expecting that subtle kind of emotion Grissom was prone to show. With the exception of a case a few years back when Grissom had actually raised his voice at Warrick, rarely did Greg witness Grissom truly angry, or even expressing that anger physically.

Of course, that didn't mean that it didn't happen, but it somehow seemed so…out of place.

The way Grissom was looking at Carol, with such clear disdain in his eyes…

But Sara wasn't bothered by it. Neither were Nick and Warrick. And it was times like these where it seemed nothing fazed his older colleagues.

Greg pulled his arms tighter around himself, fingers gripping the sides of his jacket. It was a testament to his inexperience despite being in the field for almost a year. He still had trouble understanding things like this, how people could do the things they do to each other. Or maybe the fact he keeps trying to understand was his problem. Maybe it would be better to just accept the fact that he couldn't make sense of everything and leave it at that.

But maybe he would have already done so if it was that easy.

He'd seen the Harrisons' pictures from their driver's licences numerous times, almost memorised the couples' faces and could easily recognise the curvature of Nathan's hooked nose and thin slant of Carol's small eyes. Nathan had greying dark hair that looked even more greyed in person while Carol retained a full head of sandy blond hair.

They both looked haggard and weary in a way that Greg believed had little to do with their age.

He didn't know if they killed the little girl or not. Neither of the Harrisons confirmed or denied the accusations, and despite the bravado Grissom, Catherine, and Brass were displaying, there was little evidence that wasn't circumstantial. It didn't help that Dawkins was the only eyewitness they really had and any kind of testimonial from the Harrisons' neighbour could easily be discredited because of his lacklustre tax history.

However, the Harrisons did confirm the financial connection with Megan, and the fact that they paid almost twice as much as the other people listed on those transactions obviously meant something, and if they could–

"Excuse me," Greg heard from an unfamiliar voice behind him. He turned around to see a woman and a man walking in his general direction, more specifically towards the door to the interrogation room.

Before they could go any further, Warrick interceded, standing in front of the pair. "Sorry, but you can't just-"

"Agent Tyler," the woman interrupted as she raised the black wallet that was already in her hand. She didn't waste time in flipping it open to reveal the badge that confirmed who she was. She nodded to the man beside her. "And this is my partner, Agent Perry." His identification was on display, as well, but only long enough for Greg to catch a glimpse of Perry's badge.

"We're here to clean up your mess," Perry said absently, placing his wallet in the side pocket of his grey suit jacket.

A little miffed at the comment himself, Greg didn't miss the affronted look on Sara's face. However, it was strange that Warrick and Nick were uncharacteristically quiet, and Greg had to wonder how much was going on that he and Sara didn't know.

But Tyler didn't wait for anyone's response as she brushed past Warrick and opened the door to the interrogation room. "Mr. and Mrs Harrison," she said, her eyes trailing over the older couple still seated across from Catherine and Grissom. "We're placing you both under protective detention."

Brass looked up in surprise, a brief flash of recognition passing over his face as he turned to Tyler and Perry. "Wait a minute, what's going on here?"

"Brass," Tyler acknowledged, "it's been a while." There was some semblance of a smile on her face, an almost forced smirk that made her seem older than she appeared. She straightened the collar of her light blue blouse, placing herself between Brass and the Harrisons while Perry motioned for the older couple to stand.

"What you call a _while_ I have the urge to call a little too soon," Brass bit out sarcastically. "You're detaining them on what grounds, Tyler?"

Perry answered impassively. "The Harrisons are being detained for withholding information concerning the whereabouts of a known felon that's currently high on our priority list."

"And what – that's supposed to be your trump card, this time?"

Tyler looked at Brass impatiently. "It's a big one, Brass."

Grissom shared a quick glance with Catherine. The anger he displayed early was replaced with an almost unnatural calm. "Are we expected to turn over anything relevant to our case?"

Perry snorted. "It's funny how you're speaking like you have a choice."

Tyler looked admonishingly at her partner, ignoring the reactions he was inviting from the other people in the room. "No. We only expect you to cooperate while we retrieve our detainees," she said as her eyes wandered from Grissom to Brass. "There's no reason to involve politics this early in the game." She turned back to Grissom. "So, you don't have to worry about keeping your case."

"You giving us a cut-off date, this time?" Brass asked seriously.

"I'm giving you for now, Brass," Tyler said calmly. "That's enough."

* * *

Yesterday surprised him.

Nick knew the Feds were keeping an eye on their case, but he wasn't expecting them to intervene this soon. Just when it seemed that things were finally turning around for them, their one break in the case was taken away. They only needed a little more time, a chance to do _something_.

Though, he would readily admit that it could have been worse. At least they had another opportunity, one the Feds have apparently lost interest in.

Nick took off his shades when he stepped into the old warehouse, recognising it as the one he saw in the photograph he found in the hotel. He gave it a quick survey as Warrick stopped beside him.

The warehouse itself was smaller than Nick expected it to be. From what he could tell, it seemed to be no more three hundred feet in length, half that in width, and maybe fifteen or so feet high. Two rows of thin support beams ran through the middle, leading to a large doorway that was probably used to carry anything that couldn't fit through the main entrance.

The interior walls were made of decaying wood, with dusty, broken windows aligned close to the ceiling. The sun came through the dark and jagged panes, bouncing off the dirty cement floor and illuminating the grime and trash that had collected over the years.

"Well, at least we know this is the place." Nick bent down to pick up a newspaper that was by his foot, surprised to see that it dated back to Wednesday, which meant _someone_ was here three days ago. He showed the paper to Warrick. "And now we know we're not just grasping at straws this time."

"Yeah, assuming that paper isn't some kind of fluke," Warrick said as he pointed to various piles of paper, food, and junk that littered the floor. "If there's actually anything left, this is going to take a while to sift through to find what we're looking for."

"Whatever that is," Sara said as she stepped beside Warrick. She wrinkled her nose. "I'm actually surprised the smell isn't as bad as you'd think it would be considering everything is pretty much rotting."

Greg entered the warehouse behind Sara, wiping his forehead with the back of his arm. "Speak for yourself. You're used to it…probably even like it by now."

"Go sit in the corner, Greg."

"Ha ha," Greg replied dryly as he adjusted the camera strap around his neck. "I call the corner in the back – the one that actually looks close to clean."

"That isn't much considering how this place looks in general," Sara returned, her voice and Greg's reply fading as she made her way to the back of the warehouse, heading towards the corner opposite of Greg.

Nick turned to Warrick. "I guess that means you and me get the front."

"Of course that's where most of the mess is."

"I know," Nick agreed with a small smile. "Next time we make sure we get the good spots."

Warrick smirked, pointed to the corner to his right. "And that's why I'm going to take the lesser of two evils and start over there."

It wasn't that much cleaner, but it still looked more appealing than the area Nick was left with. "Every man for himself, Warrick?"

"You know it."

* * *

Greg stilled at the sound of something scraping across the floor.

His first thought was that it was rat, which wasn't exactly unlikely in this situation. And while he had been referred to as a "lab rat" in the past (and even now on some occasions), real rats were something he'd could do without. Not that it had to do with any kind of irrational fear concerning them, because it didn't apply to all rats; just ones he was more likely to find in the less sanitary places…places like this.

Hence, it was why Greg had yet to move.

He was still hunched on the floor, camera aimed at over a couple of small, deflated red balloons surrounded by traces of some white substance. He had a pretty good idea of what the substance was but didn't want his mind to delve into the possibility that any overexcited rats that could be lurking around.

But then, he heard it again. It was prolonged this time and sounded like something was dragging against to floor. He turned his head, looking to see Nick, Sara, and Warrick at the other corners of the warehouse. None of them were making that much noise, and if no one else noticed, he wasn't sure if that mean he was beginning to imagine things or not.

And then it came again, some cross between a high pitched whine and low moan. Greg narrowed his eyes in concentration as he attempted to place the sound.

He stood up slowly, looking around the warehouse warily. As far as he knew, other than the three other people inside the warehouse, there were the three officers outside. And there were only two ways to get in: the main door and the supply door near the back, where he was. But he knew there was an officer by each one, with the third officer with one of the other officers or near one of the squad cars.

Either someone was playing some kind of trick on him or…

There was a sudden rattling noise and Greg quickly turned to the right. It was coming from there, from the wall.

He looked back at Sara, who working from the area closest to him, and was surprised she didn't hear it. Some part of him briefly contemplated calling Sara over, but he was already moving closer to the wall. He reached out to touch it, placing a little weight until it seemed to move. Momentarily thrown off, he backed away. He frowned and then pushed again to find it was a kind of hidden door that opened outward, which meant the creaking was the sound of the door moving, but who was moving the door?

He peeked through the door, surmising that it was more of a makeshift decision that was made after the warehouse was built. And judging by the lack of corrosion on the hinges on the outside, Greg could make a safe bet that the door was a pretty new addition in general.

He lowered his gaze, picking up the camera that was resting against his chest. But he dropped the camera in surprise when he lifted his head and came face to face with Officer Davis. It was the same woman with the mousey features he'd first met at the Harrisons' house.

Greg sighed, inhaling deeply in an attempt to lower his now elevated heart rate back to normal. He was relieved that the camera was attached to the strap around his neck, and maybe even more so that this wasn't one of those situations where the suspect came back to the scene of the crime.

Though, he could have sworn that the three officers that were supposed to be outside the warehouse were male.

"Sanders," she said curtly, breaking Greg out of his musings with the same kind of detachment he'd come to associate her with. He was almost surprised she remembered his name, but then realised it was on his vest.

She reached for something in her back pocket, and Greg wondered if that rabbit tattoo was still on her forearm, eyes briefly lingering on her arm before he heard her say his name again.

"Yes?" he replied awkwardly, not exactly sure what she wanted or why she even approached him based upon how their last encounter went.

She held out what looked to be a blank business card in her hand, urging Greg to take it. "You dropped this when you got out of the car."

"I didn't–"

"I saw it fall out of your pocket, so _take_ it," she said, not really giving him a choice when she took his hand and forced the card into his palm.

Blinking in confusion, Greg looked down at the small piece of paper in his hand.

"Just…just keep it, okay," she added hurriedly, almost softly as she removed her hand from his.

_For what,_ he wanted to ask, but when he raised his head she was already gone.

Greg puffed his cheeks in frustration as he reached to pull the door closed. He only liked puzzles when he had all the pieces, and at this point, he felt as though he had nothing at all. Though, the fact that he had no clue as to what was going on wasn't a matter of importance because Greg understood that there was some kind of significance behind Davis giving him the card.

No, what he really wanted to know was if whether or not whatever just happened was a good or bad thing. There were too many possibilities running around in his head, and Greg needed to speak to Davis if he wanted any kind of answer. It an awkward encounter he didn't want to look forward to, and he had a feeling she would deny even giving him the card in the first place.

He looked around the warehouse warily, confused see that Sara didn't notice anything. Nick and Warrick were far enough away, but why couldn't Sara at least hear something? It was bad enough he was beginning to think it was more likely the last few minutes were a figment of his imagination.

No, he had to think about this one and the sheer randomness surrounding it. His best bet was to bag the card and try to make sense of it with Grissom and Warrick. They were the ones most likely to take him seriously.

Greg turned the card over and frowned when he saw the small, pictographic characters he knew Archie would have better a chance of understanding. Though, underneath the characters was a ten digit phone number with a Vegas area code he didn't have trouble recognising. The number itself wasn't familiar, but if it was legitimate, then it could be traced back to someone. And he doubted that it was Davis.

The underlying question then, of course, was who?

But more importantly, what did it have to do with him?

* * *

Nick groaned at the light rapping on the door, loosening his grip on the sheet and turning his face into the cool side of the pillow. The door was opened carefully, slowly, and the harsh creaking that resulted undermined Greg's effort to be quiet. He listened to the soft footsteps, the brush of bare feet on the wooden floor and wondered why the other man still bothered to knock in the first place.

It was Greg's room, too.

Normally, Nick would complain at this point. Somewhere it turned into to a kind of routine, a joke between them, where he would tease Greg about waking him up. But Nick wasn't sleeping this time, not really. It'd been three days since their argument and the first day Greg wasn't sleeping in the guest room. Or at least Nick hoped Greg wouldn't be sleeping there tonight.

"You mind if I turn the lamp on?" Greg asked softly, almost hesitantly.

"No." Nick sighed as he sat up, placing his back against the headboard. "Not sleeping anyway." He closed his eyes when the light his face, pupils adjusting to the sudden change however dim it was.

"I've been thinking…" Greg had his thumbs in his boxers, hanging off the elastic band as his hands rested against his hips. Though he was speaking to Nick, he seemed to be concentrating on the floor and determined not to look at the other man.

But the lack of eye contact wasn't particularly jarring to Nick at this point. It was the most Greg had said to him in two days that didn't have to do with work or some mundane aspect of their personal lives, excluding what happened in the living room. Usually, Nick would have to take proverbial the first step, and it meant something that this could be one of those rare occasions were Greg would take the initiative.

"About what?" Nick asked cautiously, watching as Greg moved further away from the door. He waited for Greg to sit on bed, pleased when he felt Greg's familiar weight beside him. It was something solid and frighteningly reassuring even though the other man still wouldn't face him.

"About what you said."

"I've said a lot of things."

Greg snorted, but was now seemingly comfortable enough to put his legs on the bed. "Yeah, I admit I'm having dreams again. _Those_ dreams and…and it's stupid."

The contempt in Greg's voice was palpable, and Nick had to force himself not to say anything, not to do anything when Greg turned around and he saw the tremble pass through Greg's frame.

Greg crossed his legs. He held his head down as he placed his hands in his lap in an attempt to stop the shaking. "But that's…that's not what I wanted to talk about."

"No?" Nick asked, well aware of the almost mocking tone of his voice. Of course Greg didn't want to talk about his nightmares, and Nick wouldn't appease him because Greg was asking him to. But neither was he going to push this time, and he knew Greg would at least be appreciative of that.

"You know the Polaroids we found?"

Nick nodded slowly as Greg finally met his gaze. He felt better with the eye contact and the fact that Greg was no longer shaking. While he did try to appear nonchalant, Nick knew shaking had a tendency to lead Greg to panic attacks. Greg hadn't had one in almost three years, not since he was kidnapped, and that wasn't an experience either of them wanted to go through again.

"I'm listening."

"I've been thinking about the numbers that were written on the bottom, and I think it's like a catalogue system of some kind."

"What do you mean by catalogue – for the girls?"

"It's not exactly how I want to think about them, but what if the first set of numbers were used as some kind of ID and the second set is supposed to be how much people were supposed to pay?"

Nick found himself giving the possibility serious thought. It wasn't as farfetched as some of things he'd heard before, and it made sense if they really were dealing with something as complex as human trafficking. In fact, it made sense if Tyler and Perry were involved, two people he hadn't seen since Ecklie's old case. Still, he knew better than to make assumptions because there was history there he wasn't sure he wanted to get involved with.

"And since this could be related to Ecklie's cold case…"

"That's what I'm thinking."

"But the photo I found only had twelve thousand on it. I thought the Harrisons paid more than that?"

"Right, but the Harrisons…" Greg paused as he began to yawn, turning away from Nick until he finished. "The Harrisons weren't supposed to pay more than that."

It was a fact that heavy yawning was a sign it wouldn't be long until Greg fell asleep, but Nick wasn't going to mention something they both knew already. "Why?"

"It can't be a coincidence that no one else did," Greg said quickly. "Remember that pattern Warrick and I were talking about earlier…and how the Harrison's don't fit?"

"Yeah…"

"So, I'm thinking the Harrisons know something the FBI doesn't want us to know about, that this could be bigger than we initially thought."

Nick could honestly say it wasn't something he put much thought into. He'd been focussing too much on the murder aspect, and he wasn't looking into what compelled the Harrisons into thinking killing was better than the alternative. Of course, the trafficking was an angle he was well aware, but he'd never thought there would be anything more than that.

"I mean, we didn't get much out of them," Greg continued after Nick's silence, "but don't you think they could have paid the extra money to try to get somebody off their backs?"

Nick narrowed his eyes in thought. "That Baitu guy…"

"Maybe," Greg said through another yawn. He covered his mouth with his hand as Nick tried to interpret the muffled words that followed. "We don't have any information on him, but I'd say it's likely that isn't the guy's real name."

Nick snorted when the other man yawned again, using his hand to cover his own yawn. "Save it for tomorrow, Greg."

"Tomorrow?" Greg asked quietly, eyes barely open as he tried to stay awake. "It's tomorrow, today."

Nick looked at the clock behind him. "It's three in the morning."

"See?"

Rolling his eyes, Nick turned the lamp off before situating himself under the comforter. He sighed when he felt Greg lie down beside him, enjoying the feel of the other man's warm breath on his cheek.

"Tomorrow?" Greg whispered again, hand reaching out to clutch Nick's shirt in an attempt to bring the other man closer.

"Yeah," Nick quietly agreed as he wrapped an arm around Greg. "We'll figure it out tomorrow."

* * *

_Life is unccessarily demanding, school is troublesome, things change (some sites become ridiculously convoluted and downright cumbersome), and I don't think I ever wore Luv's. However, I'm not…not finishing this story because I actually like it/I missed writing/it's pretty much written out - all that jazz. Not to mention the next chapter is the beginning of the climax._

_So, thank you to anyone who reads...this roller coaster and thank you to **silverrayne621**, **LaughableBlackStorm**, and **Andrew-Squee** for reviewing._


	7. Part Seven

_And you've just had some kind of mushroom…_

--

Apart from the fact that he seemed to be a fairly new lab tech who supposedly worked the Day shift, Greg didn't know much about Henry. They hadn't officially met, but he'd seen him in passing and heard a few things from his colleagues; though neither of which prepared Greg for the nearly unsettling grin on Henry's face as the other man entered the room.

"Sanders, right?"

"Yeah, but Greg's fine, too."

"Call me Henry, then," Henry said amicably. He gestured to the sheet of paper in his hand and held it out for Greg to take. "Hodges asked me to give this to you, the results for the white substance you gave him earlier."

"Thanks," Greg replied absently, skimming over the results on the paper. It wasn't much of a surprise that the white powder was a controlled substance, but he couldn't exactly claim he was expecting to see pseudoephedrine, much less a pure sample of it.

"Oh, not a problem," Henry said, interjecting into Greg's thoughts. "Hodges said he had better things to do than being your personal servant, but really, I don't mind. I was going to pass by here anyway."

Greg slowly raised his head, eyes travelling from the paper in his hand to Henry. He supposed he shouldn't expect the teasing from Hodges to stop anytime soon, especially knowing the older man didn't exactly mean what he said, which Jacqui finally explained to him a couple of years ago. Or, as Archie put it, Hodges didn't mean what he said the majority of the time, and Greg just had to give the other man the benefit of the doubt.

Still there was something unnerving about how candid Henry appeared to be in regards to said teasing.

"So, how's the case going?" Henry asked curiously, seemingly intent on making some kind of small conversation before he left. "If you don't mind me asking, that is."

Greg shook his head. "No, I don't mind, but there's not really much I can say about it, really."

Henry nodded, muttering something Greg didn't catch. "So, the FBI hasn't taken this one, yet?"

"How did you – Never mind." Obviously, Greg had been out of the loop too long if he failed to remember how fast things could spread in the lab, specifically when it's among a group people stuck in one place analysing evidence for a considerable amount of time.

"Just because I'm new and Ecklie's tossing me back and forth doesn't necessarily mean I'm oblivious to what's going on around me…you know."

If it weren't for the casual tone in his voice, Greg would have believed the other man was defensive. But then Henry gave him another one of those easy-going smiles that made Greg feel somewhat silly for reasons he wasn't particularly sure of.

"Sorry," Henry said hurriedly. "I'm just getting that impression from a lot people lately…well, more than I usually do, anyway," he added ruefully.

Greg let a small laugh escape him. "Yeah, I know the feeling."

Henry returned the laughter, the sound eventually fading alongside Greg's and placing an awkward silence between the two of them. Thankfully, Henry had the tact and the willingness to break it.

"So, yeah, I'll just let you – hey, is that," he began, pointing to small a bag containing the business card Greg was given yesterday. "May I?" But Henry didn't wait for Greg's answer, studying the card inside as he picked up the bag.

"Sĭ Dì Fēn Bái Tùzi…I think…if I even pronounced that right."

"Wait a minute, you can read that?" It was kind of unexpected and more than just a little bit random, as well. Still, if Henry did know what it meant that would save Greg the paperwork required to request a translator since he didn't necessarily trust his ability to correctly interpret a pictographic language and one definitely not one he couldn't even identify in the first place. Norwegian and Spanish were as far as he would go when it came to anything other than English.

He would have gone to Archie earlier, assuming the writing on the card was Chinese, but then he remembered the only thing Archie could do with the language was limited to saying a few choice words and carrying on a basic conversation, much less being able to read the characters.

"I'm better with speaking than reading to be honest. Either way, I'm still kind of rusty with my Mandarin since I don't use it as much as I used to."

"No kidding."

"Yeah, I spent a couple of years in college studying with my girlfriend in Beijing, where she happened to be born. Go figure, right?"

Greg wanted to make a smart remark about something along the lines of dedication, but he could say that another time. "Not to brush you off or anything, but what does it say on the card?"

"Oh, yeah," Henry said as he glanced at the card once more. "It's a name actually, not a weird one but definitely not as common as I'd like to think. Bái, I can understand, but only if his parents were fans of Carroll will Tùzi make sense to me. And since Sĭ Dì Fēn comes first, before the family name and given name, it's a good bet this guy's American. Or maybe he's just–"

"For someone who can't tell the difference between Chinese and Japanese, please?" Greg asked, trying to hide the sense of urgency in his voice. He vaguely wondered if this was how other people felt when he rambled about something.

Henry looked sheepish for a moment. "Uh, roughly, it translates into Stephen Bái Tùzi.

"Literally…"

"Literally, it means Stephen White Rabbit."

"White Rabbit," Greg repeated softly, more to himself than to Henry. "Is that what white rabbit is in Chinese, I mean Mandarin?"

"That's why I was thrown off with the name since it doesn't make much sense to combine words when there's already a word for something. I would have looked for something like Baitu."

"Baitu?"

"Though, I guess it could still be a coincidence, maybe even a moniker or something. Then again, there's a lot of mythology with rabbits in plenty of cultures, especially in China. So, I guess I shouldn't think it's really all that strange when I'm not the resident expert in name conventions."

Greg bit his lip in thought. It was _too_ much of a coincidence. Like the white rabbit tattoo on the arm of Officer Davis, who had given him the card with number of someone who could actually be the Baitu that had connections with Megan Peterson. Then that would link him to the little girl Greg found and possibly even the other girl from Ecklie's case if they could somehow tie him to the present, or at least the warehouse.

All they needed to do was figure out who this Stephen guy and hope he would provide them more answers than Harrisons.

"Henry," Greg said suddenly, looking at the other man with the utmost serious expression on his face, "if I could kiss you right now, believe me, I would."

Henry looked at Greg warily, a nervous edge to his voice as he subtlety increased the difference between himself and the other man.

"Um…okay?"

* * *

Last night was…

To say the least, last night was everything Nick expected and nothing close to what he wanted. Apart from the underlying tension that was still between them, it seemed like he and Greg were on better speaking terms and maybe even better terms in general. They had moved forward somewhat, but if Nick were honest with himself, it really wasn't much better than the night before.

Yet, it was routine by now, covering whatever happened then with something else in the future.

When Greg began pushing to avoid something in earnest, Nick knew it would be better for the both of them if he stopped trying to push back to get Greg to talk about it – something he had to remind himself to do from time to time. They both knew it wasn't the best way to deal with their problems. There was going to be backlash, there always was. But for now, Nick was going to temporarily move it to the side because he knew he couldn't deal with his personal issues concerning his relationship and manage the additional stress from the job. It just wasn't the time.

Greg's done this before, he's done this before, and while it still left things unsaid between them, Nick wasn't going to question how it helped it get over anything was keeping them apart, no matter how petty it seemed. And it wasn't as if Nick was expecting an apology from Greg, though part of him couldn't imagine hearing the word sorry from Greg's lips actually being said in earnest. But there was rarely any reason to apologise, not for anything truly important, anyway. They were both wrong, just in different ways, and although neither he nor Greg would deny it, they wouldn't readily admit to it, either.

Nick had his own reasoning that had nothing to do with that movie, _Love Story_. Regardless of how many times Greg felt the need to rag him about it, Nick's beliefs had nothing to do with that one line about love meaning never having to say sorry, even if Nick didn't exactly withhold from saying at all. He was a romantic, not a sap, and Greg was lucky Nick couldn't even wrap his head around Greg's logic, or lack thereof, when the other man first told him why he didn't believe in apologies.

_"Because it's just a word."_

_"If you feel bad for what you did–"_

_"Then you shouldn't have done it," Greg said simply._

_"But you say it all the time," Nick reasoned._

_"Sometimes, but not all the time, though. Greg smiled, tilting his head slightly to the side. "However," he continued, pointing his plastic fork at Nick, "I'll have you know it's for the sake of being polite."_

_"But you don't believe in it?"_

_"Right." Greg looked up from his bowl of ramen noodles, regarding Nick coyly as he sipped the broth._

_Nick shook his head in confusion. "Then wouldn't it be pointless?"_

_"Exactly."_

Needless to say, Nick stopped trying to understand Greg's train of thought behind it long ago, but it did make situations like this easier, something they could both agree on and wouldn't fault the other for. Or at least Nick found it easier than trying to understand why there was vaginal fluid intermixed with the dirt covering some of the balloons they found in the warehouse.

Discovering balloons in the stomach or colon he could understand as it was one of the more typical methods for drug trafficking, despite the risk for the mule, the person actually being used as a container for the drugs. But he didn't want to even begin to contemplate why balloons containing samples of pseudoephedrine were any near someone's vagina. Sara and Greg were the lucky ones who found those, Greg even luckier to find a blanket with traces with semen alongside additional vaginal fluid.

Although, in all honesty, Nick couldn't say balloons were the most unusual place he'd seen bodily fluid, finding semen on Wilcox's laptop included. But it did make him more than just a little wary when he placed the previously opened package of latex balloons on the table.

Of course, dirt and dust aside, the balloons he found in the warehouse were relatively new or at least they looked as if they hadn't been used…recently. Unfortunately, they couldn't find traces of saliva on the openings, which they looked for even though it was pretty much suspected that the balloons were more likely used for recreation than for decoration.

There was a knock on the door, and Nick peered up to see Catherine make her way inside the room. He nodded as she came in, giving her a half-hearted hey as she glanced around the room in interest. With boxes of evidence and files surrounding him, Nick knew it probably looked like she just walked into a storage, a junky storage room, and by the look her face, he could tell she silently agreed.

"Taking the initiative, Nicky?" she asked languidly, not hiding the diminutive smirk on her face as she carefully manoeuvred her way through an opening between two boxes. "I didn't know you guys found so much."

Scoffing, Nick looked at Catherine incredulously. "Trust me; I'm not doing this alone by choice." It wasn't the first time he was left to process evidence. He was used to picking up the slack, didn't really mind if everyone else was busy, but looking over so much at once was really beginning to try his patience.

"I can tell," she said duly, adding needlessly, "It's a safety hazard in here."

"If I actually did have some kind of help, it wouldn't like this for starters. But still, there's so much backlog that needs to get sort through we don't have enough space to put it anywhere else right now."

"Weren't Greg and Warrick supposed to here, too? I know Sara won't be able to come in until later because she's maxed out on overtime."

"Haven't seen Warrick since yesterday and Greg since this early morning, but I just got in here half an hour ago, so I'm hoping they're just taking a break or something."

"Shame." Catherine shrugged. "Well, I would have been here earlier, but I had to meet with Ecklie."

"I thought Grissom–"

"If it involves politics or any type of paperwork, you know he always sends me."

Nick snorted. "He wouldn't be Grissom otherwise. So, was it about when Tyler and Perry came here yesterday?"

"Among other things; including reopening Ecklie's old dumpster case since there's enough correlation with the evidence to connect it with ours. But this time we're going to try and keep this one under wraps as much as possible."

Nick looked at Catherine in confusion, not expecting Ecklie wanting to keep something like this under the table. Yeah, the guy was pretty annoying with his literal interpretation of "everything by the book," but maybe with the prospect of the Feds on their tails even Ecklie was starting to feel the pressure to follow up on a case that was essentially taken away from him. Though it was a while back, but Nick could still remember the defeated look on Ecklie's face, something that was jarringly out of place on the usually overtly confident man.

"But I thought most of the evidence from that case was confiscated," Nick asked. "I mean, except for a few pictures and copies of some documents they didn't need, didn't the Feds overrule our jurisdiction?"

"Oh, they did," Catherine said, nodding her head in agreement. "Thing is, they only took evidence that pertained to what they knew then, even though we didn't have much to work with anyway. Not to mention, with the Harrisons gone for protective detention, putting these two cases together may be our only lead."

"And we might be able to make sense of things now that we couldn't understand then."

"That's the plan, yeah. Of course, everything sounds better in theory before you put it into practice." Catherine sighed. "Ecklie and I just need to spread the good news to make sure everyone who needs to know is clued in."

"But if the evidence doesn't lead us to anyone, this whole thing's going to be fruitless and no more than some wild goose chase. There's not much point to it if we can't find anybody to hold accountable for something or anything to lead us to someone who can explain what the hell is going on. "

"And here I always thought you were the optimistic one out of all of us."

"Well, Catherine, it's really getting to me right about now."

"Look, I have to take care of some paperwork, and then I'll come back to help sorting this stuff out before thing's get to messy."

"Let me guess: You're going to bring the files and evidence from Ecklie's case with you."

"Just think of it as early Christmas present," she said evenly, the corners of her mouth turning upwards as she lightly patted Nick on the shoulder. "Something to cheer you up a little."

* * *

As much as Greg appreciated Henry's knowledge of Chinese – and inadvertently Hodges's penchant for teasing Greg and being indolent on occasion – he wished he had spent some of that time between being excited and rushing to find Warrick on trying not to make the less than artful slips that led to the scrutiny he was currently facing.

_"I've been looking for you, and Henry can read Chinese."_

_Warrick removed his elbow from the table, sitting up and turning in his chair as Greg approached him. "Chinese?"_

_"Mandarin or whatever, but the point is he can read it."_

_"Okay, but what does that have to do with why you were looking for me?"_

_"The card Officer Davis gave me yesterday, I didn't tell you about it yet, but it has Chinese characters on it. There's a Vegas number on there, too, but to make a long story short: the person who the number may belong to could be the Baitu we're looking for. Not _literally_ Baitu, but Henry wrote down the name for me, so now we just have to–"_

_"Hold on and back up for a second, an _officer_ gave you the card?"_

_"She said I dropped it, and wouldn't let me _not_ take it." Greg presented the business card in his hand, already out of the bag and on top of yellow sticky note that Henry had written on earlier._

_"An _officer_ gave you the card?"_

_"Yeah, I even smudged the ink with my gloves."_

The exchange led to Warrick paging Grissom and the three of them sitting in front of a computer checking the payroll for an Officer Davis, or even anyone with the last name of Davis. Naturally, it only made sense that only person currently or formerly employed by LVPD with the last name Davis was the male janitor who made morning rounds in the lab and a male officer who retired from the force seven years ago. Personally, Greg thought it was kind of peculiar considering he didn't believe Davis was that uncommon of a last name, but apparently neglecting to anyone about his encounter with Officer Davis – if she even was an officer – wasn't the only thing he was wrong about.

"Why didn't you say something earlier?"

Greg looked at his supervisor helplessly. He knew he should have done something yesterday, but hindsight wasn't going to help his situation now. "I don't know. What was I supposed to say, Grissom?"

"Something," Grissom said simply, staring at Greg in a way that made the younger man somewhat contrite. There was an edge to his voice, already firm and seemingly bent on making Greg feel like he was being chastised for doing something wrong, which probably wasn't far from the truth. Still, he hadn't felt this nervous around Grissom in a long time.

"It's not like I haven't seen her before, but then she gave me the card, and I wasn't sure–"

"When was the first time you saw her?" Warrick said quickly, interrupting Greg's rambling. He seemed more relaxed than Grissom, who wasn't exactly making Greg comfortable, which undoubtedly was probably what the older man was trying to do.

Greg rubbed the soft material of his jacket in between his fingers, trying to remember when he'd grabbed the end of his sleeve in the first place. "Uh, a couple of weeks ago when we went to the Harrisons' house." He tightened his grip on the cuff when Warrick and Grissom looked at him in confusion.

"Where exactly did you see her?" Grissom asked, looking at Greg expectantly. "Because I don't remember seeing anyone named Davis when I went into the house, or any female officers for that matter."

"She was standing by the front door…right by that bench on the porch."

Warrick looked thoughtful for a moment. "I remember passing somebody, but her face isn't ringing any bells. Was she tall?"

"No. She was short, about yay high." Greg placed his hand a few inches below his shoulder, relatively close to his elbow. "She has dark black hair and a small face with distinct facial features, like her eyes. They were slanted but pretty close together."

"Not ringing any bells," Warrick admitted reluctantly.

"Okay, she had a tattoo of a white rabbit on her arm. And I only saw it because she had her sleeves rolled up, but she pulled them when I was looking at it, so you must have seen something."

"You know I would remember one if I saw it."

Greg puffed his cheeks in annoyance. There was no way he was the only one who saw Davis. Warrick was in front him when they went into the house. The other man even nodded to her so how could he not remember when she was standing by the entrance. "She was there. I'm telling you I saw her at the Harrisons' house and at the warehouse."

Grissom narrowed his eyes at Greg, his gaze more pensive and less intimidating. "Then why didn't anyone else see her at the warehouse?"

"It wasn't the smallest warehouse, and we took different sections. I found a side door in mine, kind of went through it, and that's when I saw her and when she gave met the card. She said I dropped it, but I know I couldn't have because I smudged the ink."

"Then the ink was fresh," Grissom began, "which means either Davis or someone else wanted you to have that card and have it point us in this direction." He gestured to the computer screen, where an address belonging to Stephen White was displayed, alongside the phone number matching the one written on the business card.

"Whatever their agenda is, they're using you for the time being, but I couldn't even begin to tell you why. We're lucky you only got away with a card." Grissom paused, taking off his glasses before peering at Greg intently. "I know you're still learning, Greg, but you can't afford to make mistakes like this. You can't take afford to take risks when you know the kinds of things that could happen."

Greg sighed heavily. "Yeah," he replied softly, the ramifications of his actions now beginning to settle in. So many different scenarios came to mind, ones that he didn't know he was even capable of imagining and each one only fostering the notion that Nick was going to kill him when he found out about yesterday.

"But what if she knows about the case and is trying to help us or something?" he said hopefully, attempting to get rid of the images in his head that were threatening to make him more than simply a little pale. Regardless of what happened, the card gave them something they could go on, something they needed that could actually drag them out of the circle they were going around.

Warrick crossed his arms, leaning away from the chair Grissom was sitting in. "Then there's the tip line. Why didn't she use that?"

"Not if yesterday was her only window of opportunity," Greg retorted. "Maybe somebody's keeping close tabs on her."

"I'll give you maybe, but the point is we still don't know."

"But what if this is the Baitu guy we're looking for? We have to go. We have no choice _but_ to go because this could actually be the case breaker we need."

"Still doesn't take away from the fact that somebody wants us to go all the way to Mesquite – that's what, 80 miles away from here?"

"Give or take, depending where you're coming from."

"And what if this person is trying to throw us off track? Yeah, it looks like things are finally coming together, but it's still a little too neat for me, too convenient."

"I don't like the circumstances, either, but it's not a question of whether or not we're going," Grissom interjected. "Rather what we'll find out when we get there."

* * *

"I figured I would find you here."

"Taking a much needed break," Nick said sardonically. He peered at Sara as she entered the break room, his eyes lingering on the brown paper bag she was holding in her hand. "I was in there by myself since nine this morning, documenting and reviewing everything from the case so far, _plus_ comparing that to whatever was left from Ecklie's cold case that's now being reopened."

Sara looked at her watch as she took a seat next to Nick on the couch. "It's only…five?" she said unhelpfully. "And you know I would have been here earlier if it weren't for the fact I'm already maxed out on overtime. Besides, I brought you food," she added, placing the brown bag in Nick's lap.

"If it's real food then you're my hero." Nick gave her a playful smile. "Really, you shouldn't have."

Sara snorted. "Yeah, right. Just be grateful you're getting a free meal."

"Opposed to what?"

"Whatever concoctions and leftover food that's been in the fridge for the past six weeks."

"Point taken," Nick readily agreed as he opened the bag and pulled out a sub sandwich wrapped in a nondescript paper. "Smells good. Is this from Capriotti's?"

"Yep, I got two foot long Bobbies."

"Two?"

"I like you Nick, but thankfully you're not the only man in my life."

"And here I was under the impression that I was special."

Sara laughed at the exaggerated pout on Nick's face. "They had that two for one deal, and I don't want to hear Greg complain when he finds out I spent money buying food he happens to like."

"What about Warrick, then?"

"I'm a nice person."

Nick suppressed a snicker, knowing better than to bite the hand that was feeding him. "I appreciate it, but I don't think I could even afford half of this, Sara." It was a rare indulgence, Thanksgiving dinner on a sandwich – packed with homemade turkey, cranberry sauce, and stuffing. It was one of those things that looked unappealing at first glance until one day Greg literally forced it down his throat.

After a short period of nearly choking on said sandwich, Nick could admit it was actually pretty good, really good even. But he didn't eat it regularly simply because he wasn't as young as he used to be. Not that he believed he was vein or anything, but the pounds tended to pile on quicker and became harder to lose the older he became. He couldn't allow him to let himself go just yet. He wouldn't say it aloud, but he still had someone he wanted to impress.

"Even if I asked to hold the mayo?" Sara asked, amused at the torn expression on Nick's face. "You can work it off like you always do," she suggested. "Not that's there's a lot to work off anyway."

"I'll probably work it off with the stress from this case alone," Nick admitted. "God knows I don't have the energy to do anything else."

"Just split it with it Greg." Sara shrugged. "It'll go straight through him."

"Believe me, I know."

"Speaking of which, is he still with Warrick and Grissom?"

"They went to Mesquite."

"Mesquite?" Sara raised her eyebrows. "What's all the way out there?"

Nick took a bite out of his sandwich, wiping his mouth with a napkin before he spoke to Sara. "A new lead and maybe even our case breaker."

"And for some reason you don't look too happy about it?"

"Oh no, I'm just trying to think about how I missed the chance to take a road trip. You remember all the boxes we put in the back room yesterday?"

Sara nodded slowly. "But I can't say I'm appreciating the look on your face."

"Yeah."

* * *

The guy on the Weather Channel said there was only going to be a slight chance of rain – less than twenty percent. So, of course, despite the fact that it'd been pretty gloomy outside this morning, this had to be the one time Greg didn't have his umbrella with him. It didn't matter that Greg was no longer in Vegas either because that wasn't point.

But to be fair, it was drizzling more than anything, almost like some kind of mini flurry storm. And maybe if it was cold enough it would have been snowing. Not to say it wasn't cold, but Warrick was always pretty gratuitous with the heat when he was driving. Although Greg wasn't going to complain about it this time because he was still trying to decide the best way to motivate himself to open the door when Warrick pulled into a long and wide section of flattened and browned grass, which Greg presumed was supposed to be a driveway of sorts.

He jumped in his seat when Warrick tapped on the window, the other man looking at him pointedly. It wasn't the kind of incentive Greg was hoping for, but it worked for the time being.

Greg rubbed his hands together, mentally berating himself for not bringing a heavier jacket as he tried to bask in the lingering warmth. He sighed as he opened the door, shuddering at the wind whipping across his face. At least he had gloves, though.

"I bet it's a lot warmer in the house," Warrick said as Greg stepped out of the car.

"It's not supposed to be this cold in the first place," Greg mumbled as he closed the door behind him, turning his attention to the house. It wasn't anything spectacular, smaller than what he initially expected and possibly a little bit too quaint for his tastes considering it was hidden in the backwoods and surrounded by trees and undergrowth– practically in the middle of nowhere.

Yet, the house itself looked relatively modern despite its location. It was covered in white vinyl siding with the exception of the front, which had a dark, almost grayish brick that somewhat matched the colour of the roof. Still, it looked like it could hold a max of five people at one time. And while Greg never really considered himself claustrophobic, he wasn't sure if he'd be comfortable if he stayed in there too long.

"Did they check the place yet?" he asked Warrick, nodding to the patrol car parked beside them. As far as he knew, it seemed like they were the only ones there. "Or are they still inside?"

"Scene's clear," Greg heard Grissom say. The older man's voice was coming from behind the car and was followed by a low squeak and the sound of the trunk being shut. "Around the house anyway, Evans is still inside and Meyers is checking the back area."

"The next house isn't for a couple of miles, right?" Greg asked.

"Better safe than sorry," Warrick pointed it out as Grissom stopped to stand by Greg.

"Not to mention it looks like White may have known we were coming and left in a hurry," Grissom added. He pointed to the left side of the house. "See the steam coming out from that vent on the side?"

"Somebody left the dryer on." Greg narrowed his eyes, ignoring the fact that he could see his breath. He looked at Warrick. "Think there's a chance he's coming back, then? Like we're being set up or something?"

Warrick shook his head. "Not with the cop car in the driveway."

Greg turned to Grissom only to the find the other man was already walking up the makeshift wooden steps leading towards a bright red door. White Venetian blinds covered two small windows placed on either side of the rather narrow door.

Falling in step behind Warrick, Greg made his way to the house as Grissom walked through the already opened door. He treaded carefully up the steps, gripping his kit tightly in his hand as the wood creaked beneath his feet. He peered into the house warily, following Warrick into the living room area and marveling at the fact the house looked more spacious than he anticipated…what he could make of it anyway.

"Why aren't the lights on?" he asked as his eyes adjusted to dark. He knew Warrick was standing in front him, and the windows did allow some of the light from outside to seep in but it would have been better if Warrick didn't look like some kind of three-dimensional shadow.

"Apparently not working." Warrick scoffed as he continued to flick what Greg assumed to be a light switch. "Can you see?"

Greg took his flashlight out his pocket, turning it on as Warrick did the same to his own. "Kind of. Weren't they working earlier, though?"

"According to Evans, when he and Meyers were in here earlier, they were." Grissom said before Warrick had a chance to answer. Greg almost dropped his flashlight, not hiding his glare when he looked in the direction of the older man, who had somehow entered through the front door. He had a habit of forgetting how quiet his supervisor could be.

Grissom only shrugged at Greg's expression. "I went out the back door," he said simply. "Evan's went back to the car after we found the fuse box outside."

"Not hard to guess what you didn't see," Warrick said offhandedly as he moved to open the blinds in one of the windows.

"Nothing was wrong as far as we could tell."

"Unless he forgot to pay his bills," Greg began, "But why would–"

"Wait a minute," Warrick interrupted, placing a hand on Greg's shoulder. "You hear that?"

Greg looked at the other man in confusion, frowning as he picked up on the soft noise from the back of the house. It was sounded almost _scratchy_ – for lack of a better word – in a way that reminded Greg of something being thrown around in some kind container.

"The dryer's still on," Grissom said quietly, his voice not exactly relieving the sinking feeling Greg had in his stomach.

Greg turned his head to look at Grissom, watching the light from the window frame the older man's face. "So…what exactly does this mean?" he whispered, silently wishing Warrick hadn't removed his hand from his shoulder. Maybe it would have been easier to pretend he felt as confident as he was trying to appear.

He heard a click, uncannily loud even in the sudden silence, and Greg didn't have to even look to know that Warrick had taken out his gun. He almost wanted to laugh – _almost_ – but only because ever since he came out in the field Nick had been pushing him to have a gun, train to get a permit or something since Greg didn't exactly follow the standard path for becoming a field technician. Much of his training was touch-and-go, and on top of his responsibilities in the lab and finding a replacement, it wasn't the most desirable transition.

Regardless, it still didn't require Greg to have a firearm. And when he made it out alive of this one, as he wouldn't allow himself think anything else, he still wouldn't falter in his resolve not to carry a gun despite what Nick said to try to persuade him otherwise. But Greg had a feeling this wasn't the way Nick wanted to be proved right.

Swallowing the growing lump in his throat, Greg waited as Grissom took out his radio. There was a slight hiss, the static from the speaker preceding the other man's voice.

"Evans, Meyers…we have a possible 404, do you copy?"

There was a pause between the three of them, but it only lasted a few seconds before Grissom tried again.

"This is Grissom, do you copy?"

Grissom shared a look with Warrick, replacing the radio in his hand with a gun as Greg observed the silent communication between the two men. "Stay here with Greg and radio the local dispatch," he told Warrick. "See if you can get a better signal somewhere else in the house."

Greg bit his lips, frowning when he saw Grissom heading towards the front door. "Where are you going, then?" he asked hesitantly. He'd seen enough horror movies to know it was better _not_ to split up.

"To look for Evans and Meyers," Grissom said resolutely.

"But shouldn't we go together?" Greg suggested, resisting the urge to reach out and grab Grissom's arm, to do something to prevent the older man from leaving. He didn't think he was being ridiculous, either; it was extremely difficult to think so when there was this staggering possibility that they could be sitting ducks trapped inside a house until they decided to leave or someone else decided to come in. And while there was also the chance that this wasn't anything at all, maybe nothing more than a fluke, Greg was pretty sure those odds were against them at this point.

"Keep your radios on and make sure you have everything secured," Grissom said, using his free hand to fix the collar of his black coat. "I'll be back in ten minutes."

_And if you aren't?_ Greg wanted to ask, but the door had already closed and Warrick already locking it.

"All right…" Warrick sighed, taking a deep breath before redirecting his attention to Greg. "We need to get a signal without going outside. Grissom's probably going to try radioing somebody from one of the cars before he still starts looking for Evans and Meyers. We'll give him his ten minutes, but if he doesn't come back, we're going to take the car and go, understood?"

It took a moment for Greg to acknowledge what Warrick was saying. "Not really, but I don't have a choice, do I?"

"No," Warrick replied sternly, moving to close the blinds he opened earlier. "And before we try to radio anybody, we're going to have to do it make sure nobody can get in."

"But what if it's White – won't that be redundant since he has a key to his own house?"

"The time it takes to open the door will stall him for a while and make sure we aren't caught by surprise. So, what I'm going to need you to do is start in the back and make sure the door and windows are locked, and the blinds are closed, all right? Can you do that?"

"Yeah, I can do that," Greg said resolutely, trying not to think of the fact that he was trying to convince himself more of than Warrick. "Right, I can do it," he said again as he turned around to point his flashlight to the back of the house. "No big deal," he whispered, attempting to calm his elevating heartbeat. It wasn't that far away because the house wasn't that big to being with, no problem at all.

He heard movement around in the kitchen area, Warrick's voice, urgent and intermittent between the clicks of the radio that still didn't seem to be able to pick up on anything. He reached for the handset in his vest, taking it out of his pocket and cursing silently when it wouldn't turn on. His extra battery was in the car.

"Warrick," he called out, "the battery's dead on my radio. Did you get through, yet?"

"Damn it," the other man said softly, low enough that Greg almost missed it. "Don't worry about it, just…just make sure everything is closed and locked, all right?"

"Yeah, I just have to…" Greg paused in his reply, stilling when he felt a sudden drop in temperature. He turned to his left when he heard the tell-tale sound of a door creaking, goose bumps appearing on his skin when he noticed the backdoor wasn't exactly closed. It was only open far enough where Greg could maybe put his arm through, but enough for the rain to come in the house. That's where the draft was coming from, the draft that wasn't there a few minutes ago. There was a growing pool of water by the door, alerting Greg to the fact it wasn't drizzling like earlier. It was actually raining now, and judging by the sounds he could hear outside, it was probably turning into a storm if it wasn't already.

He jumped back when heard the crack of thunder, dropping his flashlight when the lightening followed. His flashlight rolled against the flooring, metal making a slight rumbling noise against the wood surface and stopping in the puddle.

"Greg?" Warrick said questioningly.

"Yeah…just dropped my flashlight," he said, waiting for the shock to wear off. "I saw something that wasn't there, that's all." And it wasn't anything more than that, nothing more than his imagination and his tendency to be jumpy.

"Scared of thunderstorms, Sanders?" Warrick joked as another bout of thunder resounded throughout the house.

"You wish," Greg replied lightly, appreciating the other man's attempt to put him at ease. He slowly made his way to the back door, looking at his watch before bending down to pick up his flashlight. It was already a quart 'til six, meaning he and Warrick had four minutes left to wait for Grissom, five minutes until they tried to make a break for it.

Cautiously, Greg placed his hand on the door knob, only to fall back against someone's chest when he felt himself being pulled away from the door. He wanted to yell, make some kind of noise, but there was a hand pressed against his mouth and an arm constricting around his neck that caused tears to seep from his eyes.

"Warr–" he tried to call out, but it was a raspy sound at best, muffled and probably drowned out the by rain beating on the roof.

Struggling, Greg tried to keep his feet planted on the floor, the bottom of his sneakers squeaking against the wet wood as felt himself being dragged outside by some strong enough to move him, strong enough to practically pick him up. His hands were gripping the arm keeping him from breathing, blunt nails scraping against dry skin in an effort to pry it from around his neck.

The wind hit his face hard, rain falling into his eyes as Greg tried to kick out, throw his attacker off balance as he was led outside. But the guy wouldn't let him go, couldn't hear his silent pleas, didn't care that Greg wasn't far off from losing consciousness.

And then he felt himself falling, the arms once around easily tossing him to ground. His back hit the ground harshly; his soaked clothes the only barrier between his body and the grass. But he was too tired to acknowledge the discomfort or the sudden weight that was now on top of him as his eyes began to close.

"Shh…it'll all be over soon."

* * *

_I know I took a few personal liberties (honestly, the only Chinese I know has to do with Japanese) with the this chapter, though with the liberties this show takes, I can't say I feel bad about it. Still, I like how this turned out: serious at times with a few moments and much, much longer than I anticipated. However, I have no comment concerning the last part and why things ended up the way they did. Everything was planned out a long time ago, so it furthers plot development...in a good way._

_Anyhow, thanks for reading and thank you to **LaughableBlackStorm**, **QueenOfTheUniverse**, and **Andrew-Squee** for reviewing._


	8. Part Eight

_And your mind is moving low…_

--

Nick thought it was funny when found the umbrella in his truck, unable to prevent the sound that was a mangled cross between a laugh and a choked sob. When Greg would usually hide it under the passenger seat of his car for reasons Nick still had yet to understand, it only was fitting Greg left his umbrella in Vegas the one time he actually needed it.

It was the kind of irony Nick was finding it difficult to accept, difficult to understand, and one that would have been a hell of a lot funnier if he could have shared it with Greg.

And Nick was only thinking about it now because he left his own umbrella at home. The hospital parking lot wasn't anywhere near full and it didn't take long for Nick to get to the main building. But it was coming down hard in Mesquite, and Nick was stuck with the blue and yellow atrocity he would tease Greg for, the same atrocity that was doing more than protecting Nick from the rain.

His steps were sharp against the pavement, water continuing to seep into his shoes as he moved through yet another puddle. Nick's pace quickened, strides becoming longer until he caught sight of the automatic doors that were the last barrier between him and the hospital. He found himself stopping, motionless beneath the overhead roof that extended well beyond the entrance. He was teetering on the edge, enough where he could still feel the rain on his back, pelting against his jacket despite the canopy being so expansive.

But for some reason his legs wouldn't move, wouldn't let Nick take those final steps when an hour ago he couldn't leave Vegas fast enough.

"_You weren't kidding about the mess," Sara said, sliding a stack of boxes against the wall and straightened the top one. She looked warily at the other boxes scattered across the floor as she carefully made her way to the table in the middle of the room. "I seriously don't remember collecting this much evidence from the warehouse." _

_Nick grunted as he placed a box on the table. "Fortunately or unfortunately, no. I thought it was all ours, too, but most of them aren't."_

_Sara looked at the box Nick placed, finger trailing across one of the labels. "Wait a minute, isn't this from–"_

"_Oh, this is one of the boxes Catherine had brought it," he said, gesturing to the pile behind him. "I already separated our stuff. That's what I was doing all morning. Everything else is from the locker down the hall."_

"_Then why are they in here?"_

"_Maintenance had to move them because county wants to renovate, expand the station."_

"_You've got to be kidding me," Sara said dully. "It's not like we're running out of storage space any time soon."_

"_Actually, it is. I just don't think it's the right time for this sort of thing since we've got too many things going on in the lab."_

"_Really?" Sara looked at Nick thoughtfully. "I didn't know."_

"_And that's why you sound so surprised?" _

_Sara rolled her eyes, playfully brushing against his shoulder. "Yeah, whatever, Nick."_

_Nick laughed, reaching for his phone when it began to vibrate in his pocket. He smiled at Sara as he put the phone to his ear, feeling the most relaxed he had in days, but the brief respite was taken away as soon as he heard Warrick's voice._

_It only took a moment for the world to go wrong, less than a second to make nothing seem right, and all before Nick even had the chance to say his name._

But an hour ago finding out Greg was taken to the hospital wasn't something set in stone. It wasn't yet finite. Not when Nick heard it from Warrick, not when he told Sara, not when he was on the road, and now that he was here…

Now that he was here he couldn't say this was just some kind of bad joke. He couldn't expect Greg to suddenly appear behind him, laughing and wearing that stupid grin on his face he always wore whenever he managed to get the upper hand on Nick. It was rare, though, the number of the times he'd seen Greg smile so wide it even made Nick's mouth hurt.

But Nick preferred that kind of trivial pain to this and would exchange it in a heartbeat with the pain that made him feel completely helpless.

One of the reasons he took this job was so he wouldn't have to be the victim, wouldn't have to be the one standing outside in the rain – unable to move forward and not willing to go back. But the last few years were especially trying. Experience served to remind Nick of his limitations and never missed the opportunity to make him question his convictions.

A car passed behind him. The headlights were bright and glared at Nick through the reflection on the glass doors. He squinted when the light hit his eyes, moving further beneath the canopy when he saw a tall man walking inside the hospital, coming closer and eventually stepping through the automatic doors.

Nick almost wanted to believe it was Greg, but quickly dismissed the idea, curiosity getting the best of him as watched the man make his way outside. He frowned when the man stopped beside a broad column and leaned against it, lighting the cigarette he took out of his pocket. By all accounts, he seemed harmless enough, but Nick couldn't shake the sudden need to be on his guard.

He closed Greg's umbrella and brought it to his side, glad he was on the opposite end when the man lifted his head to look at him. But with the lighting outside it was too dark to make out much of his face, and Nick was too far away to see anything above the man's nose.

"You planning on standing there all day?" he asked Nick, something in his voice putting Nick further on edge.

He didn't answer when the man pushed himself off the column, languid in steps as he made his way towards Nick and stopping when there was an arm's length between them.

"Not much of a talker then, huh?" the man said, still facing away from Nick as a puff of smoke came out of his mouth.

"I guess not," Nick replied evenly, his hold around Greg's umbrella tightening.

The man only shrugged as he flicked his cigarette on the ground, ironically passing the no smoking sign as it landed in the wet grass. Pulling his coat tighter around him, he gave Nick a lazy smile. He took a small white umbrella out of his pocket, the corners of his mouth still crooked when he turned around and walked away.

* * *

It was one of the most bizarre feelings, lingering somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness, and Greg wasn't sure if it was that, the soreness in his throat, or the intermittent throbbing in his head that made him think twice about the urge to open his eyes.

Torn between a dream too vague to and a familiar voice somewhere in the distance, fading into the back of his mind, Greg vouched to keep his eyes closed for the time being. He was comfortable enough, lying on what he wanted to assume was a bed if the pillow beneath his head and the blanket over his body was anything to go by. Though, he couldn't remember getting in the bed, much less making the conscious decision to go to sleep.

Or maybe he was just that tired.

However, it still didn't explain why his throat was aching to the effect of something like BCP gone wrong even though he wasn't exactly into breath control. He played around with it once or twice when he was younger, and while it was fun then, he eventually grew out of it. So, it was no question it wasn't something that came up in his sex life now, definitely nothing like that when it came to sex or any kind of foreplay with Nick.

Exciting sex life aside, though, unless his subconscious was manifesting itself physically, Greg couldn't come up with a reason for the pain in his head, either. It was probably why he felt so tired and even somewhat nauseous as if he'd been spinning around too fast and stopped suddenly. He hadn't intentionally moved for at least a good five minutes, but it was like he was still going through some kind of vertigo that was putting him on the edge of equilibrium to the point where he was internally debating the right way to count to five.

He shifted in the sheets, bringing his knees closer to his stomach as he reached for Nick on the other side of the bed, where the other man usually slept. He stilled when his arm extended over the bed, the half that was usually there now gone and apparently replaced by empty space.

Surprisingly composed, Greg decided he wasn't going to panic, wasn't going to lose his relative sense of calm when he felt thin fingers wrap around his arm and a bright light assault his eyes. There was something hauntingly familiar about this situation, reminiscent of only a few other times in his life that gave Greg more than just an idea that he was in a hospital.

"Greg?" He heard someone ask, the voice leading him to believe it was a woman. He blinked, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the light before he could see the person moving in front of him. She was older than he expected, probably somewhere in her late forties, and was wearing a pair of scrubs that reminded Greg of some of the old shirts he still had hidden somewhere in his closet.

He closed his eyes at the thought.

"Don't go back to sleep on me, yet. I need you to stay up for a few more minutes while I take your blood pressure, all right?"

"Blood pressure?" Greg repeated, wishing he said nothing when he heard his voice. He didn't trust that his attempt to speak produced some kind of believable coherent sound.

"We're checking it every hour since yours was so low coming in," she clarified as she wrapped the cuff around his arm. "I'm your nurse for the night by the way, Sophie."

Greg opened his eyes as he felt a gradually increasing pressure around his right forearm. He wiggled his left index finger, surprised to see it covered with a sensor attached to the pulse oximeter that was next to Sophie. He knew it measured the oxygen levels in his blood, but he was trying to figure what happened that made it necessary to have in the first place.

There was a short beep, and the pressure on Greg's forearm began to deflate.

Sophie smiled at him as she removed the cuff. Her blue eyes were bright against her pale face and dark red hair. "You're getting back to normal, that's good. It was kind of touch and go for a while, and we weren't sure if you were going to wake up."

"What?" Greg began to sit up but Sophie's hand on his shoulder kept him on the bed.

"Be careful not to tear out your IV," she said, gesturing to the drip connected to the small plastic tube currently lodged in Greg's arm. "It's only temporary, but it's not going to help you feel better if we can't even get you hydrated."

Greg moaned into the side of his pillow. "But I don't–"

There was a knock on the door, and Greg pressed the side of his face into his pillow, barely able to suppress a moan until he heard Grissom's voice.

"Am I too early?" Grissom asked. "Dr. Sobule said you paged him and that I could come in, but is Greg still–"

"Grissom." Greg moved to get up once more only to fall against the headboard, immediately regretting trying to sit up too fast as Sophie laid a hand on his shoulder.

Something inside his stomach curled. Seeing Grissom provoked his memory of why he was in a hospital, what happened at that house. He felt better knowing at least Grissom was okay considering the last time he saw the other man seemed more like one of those dubious goodbyes. But it still left what happened to Warrick. He didn't come in the room, didn't follow behind Grissom, and Greg was finding it hard not to give into the need to panic.

Sophie said his name again, but Greg had too many thoughts running around in his mind, too many questions that propelled a sense of urgency to get them answered. "I told you to–"

"Where's Warrick? Is he okay?" he asked frantically, his chest beginning to heave up and down as it became harder to take in air. His vision was turning blurry, everything a surge of colour and misplaced lines he couldn't separate. There was a beeping in the background, getting louder and louder, increasingly more annoying and tossed alongside the voices adding to the noise.

His breath hitched when he felt a hand was on his forehead, warm and soothing against his skin. It was something tangible, something he could hold on to. He reached for the hand, fingers wrapping around and pulling it on the bed as he mulled over the breathing exercises he used to practice with Nick.

When the beeping finally stopped, he heard could hear his name. It was Grissom calling him this time, the other man standing beside Sophie and peering over Greg.

"Is Warrick okay?" Greg asked again, looking down to see it was Grissom who touched his forehead. He exhaled slowly, allowing himself to relax as he let go of Grissom's hand.

"Warrick's fine, Greg," Grissom said evenly. "Nothing happened to him."

"Are you sure?"

"He's waiting outside with Nick."

"Nick's here?"

Sophie loosened her hold on Greg's shoulder, light but still firm enough to garner his attention. "Greg, listen honey," she said slowly. "You just woke up, and you're still recovering from severe hypoxia. You're lucky enough as it is, so please, _please_, take it easy. If only for my sake."

"I didn't mean to–"

"Have a panic attack?" she asked incredulously. "Nobody plans for those, Greg."

"But they're not bad."

"I know your records say you have a history with them, but nothing else other than what's listed from a couple of years ago."

"It was only for a few months, and I don't need to take meds anymore."

"Have you had any recent attacks before this one, after you were given medication?"

"I haven't needed to take them since then," he answered, intentionally dodging the question.

"Forgive me if I don't take your word for it, but we'll see what after I talk to Dr. Sobule about it." She looked at Greg pointedly, removing her hand from his shoulder. "But I'll leave you alone in the meantime," she said, hand hovering flat red button on control panel built into the handrail of Greg's bed. "Use the call button if you need me, though. I'm right around the corner, okay?"

Her gaze didn't leave Greg, and she continued to stare at him until he finally spoke.

"I will."

She sighed, still appearing somewhat doubtful as she placed her hand on the stand carrying the blood pressure meter. "Okay."

Grissom nodded at Sophie as she made her way out of the room. "Thank you."

She flashed another smile before she closed the door behind her.

Grissom took a seat in the chair next to Greg's bed, placing his kit beside the small table between them. "How are you doing, Greg?"

"Do you really have to ask?"

"No, but is it wrong if I want to?"

Greg turned to the side, straightening his back against the headboard as he faced Grissom. "I just want to get this part over with."

"We don't have to do it now."

"Like you said last time, better sooner than later, right?"

"I shouldn't be surprised you remember that."

"It takes a lot for me to forget."

"Are you sure?" Grissom frowned, adjusting his glasses as he looked at Greg with concern. "I don't minded waiting if you want to do this with–"

"I know it was a guy. Somewhere around my height," Greg said abruptly, concentrating on the clock behind Grissom and not the voice of the man who tried to kill him. "I didn't see him since he came at me from behind. He uh, he had his arm around my neck and his hand over my mouth. I know I'm not that heavy, but damn it, I couldn't even keep my feet on the floor."

"If he was stronger than you, it's not that hard to believe. Not hard to believe at all, Greg."

Greg couldn't argue against logic, and he would have readily agreed if they were talking about anyone else.

"I tried to make some kind of noise, thought I did, but apparently I didn't." Greg scoffed. "Next thing I knew, I was outside in the rain, flat on my back and he was on top of me. I remember that because he was heavy, or at least heavier than me, anyway. Then his hands were grabbing my neck and…"

Greg turned his gaze to the other side of the room, not interested in seeing the expression on Grissom's face. Regardless of what it was, if it was even anything at all, he just didn't want to see it.

"Can you think of anything else?"

"Other than this whole thing being my fault?"

"It's not your fault, Greg," Grissom said softly, but Greg wasn't really paying the other man that much attention.

"This is what you were talking about earlier, right? When I told you about seeing Davis in the warehouse, I guess…"

Grissom shook his head. "That doesn't have anything to do with it."

"Warrick was right there, _right there_, and I still didn't say anything when I saw the back door open. I mean, you would have. Warrick would have. Even Sara would–"

"Something like this could have happened to any one of us."

"But it didn't."

"Things like this already have," Grissom reminded him sternly. "And they still could."

* * *

Nick stood in front of reception desk, shivering and dripping water on the floor as he looked at the laminated badge clipped to the side pocket of the nurse's white top. It read _Mark Spencer, CNS_, the letters thin and bold beneath the small picture of the man behind the desk.

"Tell Pam to send him to level three," Mark said into the phone, holding the receiver between his head and his shoulder as he scribbled something across a large and yellow legal pad. He raised his head when Nick approached the desk, acknowledging the other man with a nod as he adjusted the light blue stethoscope around his neck before it fell to the floor.

Nick looked behind Mark, trying to peer into the room to see if there was anyone else who could help him. But it seemed like Mark was the only one who could help him. "Excuse me, can–"

"Or tell Julie to do it. I'm even not supposed to be here, and I need to get back to…"

"_Excuse me_," Nick tried again, clenching his teeth when Mark continued his conversation on the phone. He knew he was being, rude and it wouldn't hurt him to wait, but Nick hadn't heard any more from Warrick or Grissom since he lost reception on his phone twenty minutes ago.

"Well, I don't know where she is. We're short enough on staff already, so work with me, all right." Mark placed his pen on the pad, raising a finger and silently telling Nick to hold as he turned to glance at the empty room behind him. "Great, do that. And did Michael leave already drop off the new load? We're running out and I can't – Yeah, thanks. You, too."

Mark sighed in exasperation as he removed the phone resting on his shoulders, putting it back with an audible click. "Sir," he said as he looked at Nick sharply, expression somewhat more forgiving when he took in Nick's appearance. He reached beneath the desk, hand reappearing with a large white towel he placed on the counter. "May I help you?"

Nick looked apologetic for a moment as he took the towel and put it around his neck. He swallowed the lump in his throat as he wiped the water from his face, all but forgetting the words that were supposed to come out of his mouth. "Yeah, um, I'm looking for Greg Sanders," he said hurriedly, the word please following as an afterthought. "He should have been brought in a couple of hours ago."

Mark turned in his chair, grabbing a short and colourful stack of files next to the computer. "What's your relation to Mr. Sanders?" he asked, fingers travelling through the pile and settling on a thin, dark green folder. "And I'll need to see some kind of identification."

"Um…" Nick reached in his side pocket, fumbling for his wallet and pulling out his driver's license. He'd gone through this before and knew he should have had this stuff ready, but just because he knew didn't make the process any easier.

"I'm Nick Stokes," he finally said. "And Greg's my…" Nick pressed his lips together, suddenly at a loss for words. _My partner, my best friend, my…everything_ is what Nick wanted to say, needed to say, but he knew it was neither the time nor the place for it.

Mark peered at Nick from above the folder in his hands, his eyes urging Nick to continue. "Your…"

"Co-worker, he's my friend and my co-worker" Nick said resolutely, putting his licence back in his wallet after Mark nodded his head in approval. "He's doesn't have any relatives in Nevada, but–"

"And this isn't exactly home for him, either." Mark flipped through another sheet of paper. "Yeah, we already pulled up his file. Warrick Brown came in with him and had the necessary paperwork taken care of already. And it says here you're listed as one of his next of kin, alongside Mr. Brown."

"Okay, good, that's good." Nick nodded in relief. "And visiting hours aren't over, yet?"

"Not until midnight."

Nick looked at his watch. That gave him at least half an hour. "So, can you tell me where Greg is or is he still in ICU?" That was the last he heard about Greg's condition, and Nick was hoping Greg would no longer be there by the time he reached the hospital.

"Unfortunately, I don't have that information with me now."

"What do you mean you don't have the information?" Nick looked at Mark in disbelief. "Never mind, can you just tell me where he is?"

"Sir, you'll have to wait to speak with Dr. Sobule because I don't know anything other than where Mr. Sanders was when he was first brought in. I just came in ten minutes ago, and the nurse who handled the paperwork isn't here."

Nick groaned in annoyance. This wasn't what he needed. "Okay, then can you tell me which room Greg was assigned when he got here?"

"I can't let you go past me until I get the green light, not until Dr. Sobule gets back. Again, I'm sorry, but it's hospital policy."

"Well, can't you page him or something?"

"He's still working rounds in the ICU, but I can let him know you're here as soon as he's available." Mark looked at Nick sympathetically. "I'm assuming you're going stay, so the waiting room's right over there," he added, pointing over Nick's shoulder to sectioned-off area near the entrance of the emergency room, the words _waiting room_ printed on a sign with a large arrow pointing towards a narrow entryway.

"Mr. Stokes?"

"Where do you want me to put this?" Nick asked, taking the now wet towel from around his neck.

"You can just give it to me," Mark said as he reached for the towel. He put in a large blue bag hanging from the wall and reached beneath the desk again for another towel. "And take this one with you before you get sick."

Nick nodded in appreciation, draping the towel on his shoulder as he made his way into the waiting area. It wasn't as if he had much of a choice to do otherwise because he wasn't leaving until he could see Greg for himself.

When he walked past the already opened door, it seemed vacant inside, like the rest of the hospital, like the rest of this small town. However, Nick could see a man and a woman inside sitting on opposite ends of the room, one of them clearly being Warrick.

The woman immediately turned to Nick when he walked in, staring at him with a hopeful expression that fell as soon as it came. She lowered her head, returning her attention to the magazine she was holding. But Nick didn't miss the stark disappointment on her face.

He looked away, letting his body fall into the seat across from Warrick as he dropped the towel and Greg's umbrella in the chair to him. He took his jacket off, grateful his shirt underneath was still somewhat dry.

Warrick remained silent, face in his hands as he leaned over in the chair. Nick doubted the other man didn't notice him, not when he made so much noise coming in. Warrick was probably sleeping. Nick didn't fault him for it, but he did wish he could do the same when he closed his eyes. So, maybe, just _maybe_ when he woke up it would be in bed next to Greg and then he claim the last few hours were nothing more than a bad dream.

He still tried, though, fruitless as it was. Although this time he opened his eyes to see Warrick examining him, almost as if he was expecting something. It startled Nick, both the unfamiliar look on Warrick's face and seeing the other man watching him so intently.

"Nick," Warrick began tentatively, "listen, I'm–"

"Thank you."

"For what?" Warrick looked at Nick in confusion. "If anything, I–"

"For coming here with Greg, for telling me what happened."

"Nick, I…"

"Just being there when I couldn't, that means a lot to me."

Warrick sighed heavily. "You know I'm the reason he's even in here, right?"

"You're not," Nick said firmly. He was already beating himself up over the situation and could do without Warrick's guilt adding to the mix. "And I'm not going to drop it all on you when we both know it's not your fault."

"You can't tell me you're not upset, Nick," Warrick said sceptically. "I _know_ you, and I _know_ this is eating at you more than you're letting on."

"Then you _know_ pointing fingers isn't going to do a lick of good to help Greg." Nick groaned, rubbing the bottom of his palm against his forehead. "What do you want me to say, Warrick? I can't blame you for something that's not even your fault."

"At least admit that you're upset. Don't close yourself off like last time because that wasn't comfortable for me, either."

"The last time I thought Greg was going to die?" Nick asked tersely. "I am upset, Warrick, believe me. I just want to see him and make sure he's okay. That's all I want right now.

"I didn't think he was going to make then…" Nick paused, looking to the ceiling as he folded his hands in his lap. "I thought I was going to lose Greg, lose everything, and that's was before I even knew what I had.

"Then what happened in May…" Nick gave a short and bitter laugh. "It wasn't fair then, either, and now…"

Nick turned away, blinking and wiping away tears he couldn't stop. He was almost expecting Warrick to say the proverbial sorry, some part of him almost wanting it, but he was more than appreciative when the other man didn't.

He sniffed, trying not to think of why everything in the room appeared so glassy. "Where's Grissom, anyway?"

But Warrick didn't get a chance to answer, interrupted when a man wearing a long white coat approached them.

"I was told a Mr. Stokes is for looking for me," he said, voice neutral as his gaze moved between the two men. "I'm Dr. Sobule."

* * *

Greg watched the door open slowly, releasing a sigh that was a cross between amusement and relief as he saw Nick tentatively walk inside the room. Using the headboard for leverage, he pushed himself off the bed, ignoring the dull pain in the back of his head as he crossed his legs.

He cleared his throat as Nick closed the door, hoping he didn't sound as bad as he did when he first woke up. It was hard not to see the concern on Nick's face, the way the other man was forcing himself to walk the short distance from the door to the bed, and Greg didn't want to add to Nick's ever growing sense of guilt by appearing as horrible as he felt.

Grabbing a chair from the corner of the room, Nick pulled it right next to the bed, practically dragging it and scraping the floor with its legs.

The sound was harsh and grating on his ears, but Greg didn't complain, couldn't say anything about it when he saw the redness in Nick's eyes. It wasn't that he'd never seen it before. Yet, he wouldn't exactly call it a common occurrence since it took a lot to make Nick cry. Not that being of the few people that could bring Nick to tears was something Greg was particularly proud of, but it was reassuring in the most awkward way possible, reinstating a strong and silent fidelity that was lacking in the beginning of their relationship.

And even years later, it was still something Greg had trouble getting used to. Still strange that he could evoke that much and that kind of emotion from another person, the kind of dedication he would have chalked up to his tendency to exaggerate if he didn't have proof.

But maybe even stranger was that Nick could do the same to him.

"You're not asleep," Nick said softly but loud enough to break Greg out of his musings. The lines around his eyes were more prominent than usual. It made him look older, much older than he was.

"I would have missed seeing you," Greg rasped, disappointed his voice star wasn't up to par even if Sophie told him it would take a while before it was back to normal.

"You sound awful."

"Should have heard me when I first woke up."

"I didn't – You know I didn't mean it like that." Nick's voice faded into silence. He leaned over in the chair, holding Greg's face in his hands as his gaze moved to the small bandage doing nothing to hide the flush of darkened blues and purples marring Greg's neck. He tilted Greg's head slightly, careful not to touch the discoloured skin. "But Jesus, Greg, what am I supposed to say to this?"

"My nurse says it looks worse than it actually is," Greg said, knowing it wasn't going to be enough to placate Nick. He actually had no clue what his neck looked like and thought it was probably better to keep that to himself. It was bad enough Grissom took pictures, had it documented so it never had the chance of going away.

But maybe if he didn't dwell on it too much, denied it for a little while longer, Greg could overlook the sheer humiliation he felt by being a victim, something he'd thought he wouldn't have to go through again.

"It's one thing to be told something, what to expect, but seeing it…" Nick paused, gently running a finger along the back of Greg's neck but pulling away when Greg flinched. "I'll never get used to that. Not when it comes to you."

"I stopped breathing by the time ambulance got out there. There was too much swelling around my airway because my pharynx was compressed. They took the tube out before I woke up." Greg pointed to his throat. "I survived a cricothyrotomy, and they only gave me a hole to show for it."

"And no t-shirt," Nick added softly, though neither he nor Greg was laughing. "Are you really okay?"

It was one of those laden questions Nick would ask, wouldn't stop asking even if he knew Greg wasn't. Physically, Greg was fine; they both knew that. But emotionally Greg didn't know where he stood even before he started this case. Nick was just waiting for him to admit it. "Yeah, I'm just stuck with that tired, tingly feeling that comes with waking up having an IV stuck in your arm."

"I don't think you being dehydrated is the worst of our problems."

"The extra coffee was worth it," Greg said jokingly, a poor semblance of a smile on his face. "You didn't switch out the decaf again, did you?"

Nick shook his head. "You can't keep doing this to yourself, Greg," he said calmly, lips pursing in veiled frustration. "Or not doing, I don't know. But you scared me. God, Greg, you _scared_ me."

Mindful of the sensor on his finger, Greg reached for one of Nick's hands, content to hold it between his own. His hands and feet were always cold, even when they were covered. But it was bearable most of the time when he was around Nick because Nick was always warm, something that never ceased to amaze Greg. "Grissom already processed me."

Nick sighed. "Yeah, I figured that before he caught up with me and Warrick in the waiting room."

"It wasn't as bad as it was last time, when I was pretty much out of it."

"Greg," Nick said flatly, "you still look pretty much out of it."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Oh."

"But if it means you're not hurting–"

"I'm not," Greg said quickly. "I'm okay."

"You _will_ be okay," Nick said steadily. His eyes were determined and held a confidence Greg tried to emulate as his grip tightened around Nick's hand. "_We'll_ still be okay."

"Because you have this uncanny ability to make me feel better?"

"No, because I know you," Nick said softly, the smile on his face hesitant and fleeting. "I would have been here sooner, but...doesn't matter." He shook his head. "Grissom and Warrick told me what happened while I was driving up here. Dr. Sobule filled me in on everything else."

"Not one of my prouder moments."

"Greg…"

"But I fought him, you know." There were still things hazy in his memory, pieces he couldn't grasp faint and remote while he tried not to delve too much into the images that were vivid in his mind. "Even when he was pulling me outside, I didn't stop. I'm just hoping I scraped off enough skin so it won't be a complete waste."

Nick looked disturbed for a moment. "Please tell me that's not all you're worried about."

Greg bit his bottom lip, letting go of Nick's hand. He lifted his head, facing the other man with a sense of bravado that he was trying to convince himself wasn't forced.

"When can I go home?"

"Not today."

"I don't like hospitals."

"I know."

"You can always sneak me out on your back," Greg said, maybe even a little more seriously than he intended. The entire situation was starting to catch up to him. So many of the things that could have gone wrong, that did go wrong, how he was able to ignore how much it scared him until now.

Nick snorted. "And break my back while you just about moon everybody?"

Self-consciously, Greg reached for the back of his gown, the tips of his ears colouring slightly when he realised his underwear was being exposed. It wasn't as if Nick hadn't seen him in less, but there was something about wearing little to nothing that could still embarrass him. "I forgot I had one of these on."

"For someone who doesn't like hospitals, you're getting kind of comfortable being in one."

"Says the one who was in here a few months ago."

"Yeah, well…" Nick scratched the back of his head, Greg more than a little pleased to find the other man appeared at least somewhat sheepish. "I had an excuse that time."

_But not a good one_, Greg thought silently. "Can I call double standard?"

"Well, I wasn't really in _here_, per se."

"Fine. Use technicalities against me during my time of need."

"Don't dish it out if you can't take it."

"Yeah, yeah, I deserved that," Greg agreed reluctantly, back hunched over as he rested his elbows on his legs. "So, joking aside, I guess that means I'm not leaving anytime soon," he said sullenly, not oblivious to the slight wince Nick failed to hide.

"They only want you to stay here until tomorrow."

"That's too long, Nick," Greg said, aware of the desperation seeping in his voice.

"You can't just brush this off. It's not going to go away like that."

"I know, and I'm not trying to brush it off. They'll let me go when I sign the release. I just need you to take–"

"You realise you could have had brain damage, right? That you could have been a damn vegetable in a coma for the rest of your life. Hell, you could have been dead, Greg. And what would I–"

"I almost died, Nick. I almost died _again_, and you – _you_ of all people – think I'm not taking this seriously," Greg whispered harshly, voice still hoarse but noticeably starting to break. "Tell me I have the choice to pretend everything's okay even though I have the marks that _damn well_ prove me wrong."

Greg felt a shudder run through him, the calm he was clinging to earlier fading into a torrent of emotions he couldn't keep up with, couldn't control. He closed his eyes, wiping his cheek with the back of his sleeve as his body began to shake. "I know it's real, so you can't tell me I don't, okay? You can't push me right now, Nick." His words were softer this time, almost too soft.

But Nick heard them, was more than close enough to when he pulled Greg into his arms, quiet as he ran his hand through Greg's hair.

He didn't say anything when Greg buried his face in Nick's shoulder, didn't say anything when Greg clutched the back of his shirt. But it was better that way because Greg found it hard to acknowledge that he was making the wet spots on Nick's shirt, that he still couldn't do anything to stop the shaking, and found it even harder to recognise the strained and muffled sound that was his voice.

"_Please_."

* * *

The initial plan was to go to house: pack up a few things for Greg to take back to Mesquite later on and try to get some kind of sleep. But somehow the drive home led him straight to lab, and as long as Grissom didn't say anything, Nick was going to make use of the only constructive outlet he could think of at one in the morning.

"I thought you already left," Wendy said, turning around in her chair when Nick walked through the doorway. The surprise in her voice was more than a little obvious, almost making Nick second guess his decision about coming back to work.

He left the hospital when Greg went to sleep, conveniently the same time visiting hours were over. Honestly, Nick would have preferred to stay overnight. And he would have tried to get away with sleeping in the chair if he wasn't more or less kicked out by Sophie after she opened the door and found Greg practically off the bed and asleep in his arms.

Nick wasn't going to deny the relief he felt knowing Greg was going to have a different nurse in the morning.

"Yeah, well, I'm back," he answered uneasily, trying to redirect her attention as he rolled up his sleeves. "Grissom told me you were working on that skin sample he gave you."

Wendy nodded. "And I'm still working on it."

"This is priority, Wendy," Nick said, a little irritated by her apparent lack of urgency. "We've got a ticking clock working against us."

"Like I said, I'm still working on it," she said slowly. "Trust me, Grissom told me to put everything else aside for this one. Right now, I'm just waiting for a match." She pointed to the monitor, and Nick sighed as the computer continued to work through the samples already in the system.

"CODIS, all the other local and state databases I have access to within a 300 mile radius – the works," Wendy continued. "Whatever we can get our hands on."

Nick crossed his arms. It was a given that Greg's attack had something to do with the Harrison case they were working on. Going by what he learned from Warrick – the card Greg was given at the warehouse, leading them to a place owned by a guy named Stephen White – there was no way there wasn't some kind of correlation.

It wasn't a wild goose chase anymore. They were being bombarding by too much information at one time, preventing them from focussing on a prominent lead, and Nick didn't know which was worse.

"Was it enough, the sample Grissom gave you?" Nick asked, mind trailing back to what Greg told him in the hospital.

"Actually, it was more than enough, and I kind of feel sorry for the guy left with the marks."

Nick snorted. Greg was far from having long nails, but Nick had the occasional marks on his back to prove Greg's nails were anything but blunt.

"I know better than to take Hodges seriously," Wendy said drolly. "But he did say Greg would one of those people who–"

"You know?" Nick asked, the fact that she knew the skin sample was from Greg catching him by surprise. Grissom wouldn't have told her, and Warrick made it home before Nick left Mesquite. And he knew better than to think Catherine or Sara would say anything.

"The whole lab might as well know," Wendy said, looking at Nick expectantly. "Or at least it seems like everybody knows at this point."

"What?" Nick asked, not liking where this particular conversation seemed to be going.

"You saw him, right?"

"And you're asking me this because…"

"Well, I remembered Catherine telling me when you were leaving, around the time I found out what happened to Greg. Then I just put two and two together. Other than what I already heard, nobody else is talking."

"Just spit it out, Wendy."

She looked at him hesitantly. "I just want to know if…"

"He's not dead if that's what you're asking," Nick said derisively.

"_No_." Wendy stared at Nick, eyes wide and the disbelief painfully evidently on her features. "No, _no_, that's _not_ what I'm asking."

"Oh," Nick said, trying to will away the heat spreading to his face. "Yeah, he's uh, fine…Greg's fine." He looked away, the long silence that followed only broken by the beep coming from the computer.

Wendy murmured something about men Nick was happy not to hear, shaking her head while giving Nick a smile he couldn't exactly return. "And it looks like we finally got our match."

* * *

_I really fought with this chapter: attempting to proofread, playing with so many reactions/interactions, keeping continuity with a freakishly bothersome timeline/history, and pretending to look like I understand all this medical nonsense without making everything seem like some kind of information dump. I didn't want to make it too melodramatic nor too light-hearted or sappy. I kept changing things around because I was trying to find that happy medium that gave me enough range and made sense at the same time._

_But in the end it's finished, and that's how I'm going to get through the day because I only have four more chapters to go. Really, I'm dying on the inside._

_So, thank you for reading and thank you to **QueenOfTheUniverse** for reviewing._


	9. Part Nine

_When logic and proportion have fallen sloppy dead…_

--

For Greg, it was…_nice_ to be home. It didn't necessarily make everything better, take away from what happened, but it was a welcome respite – even if the feeling was one that would be short-lived. He would take whatever he could get.

Nick didn't pick him until last night, which meant more time spent in the hospital, something Greg wasn't too fond of. Although, he couldn't say the wait was unbearable considering the majority of yesterday went by in a blur. Knocked out for most of the day – sometime between falling in and out of sleep – Greg was vaguely able to recall getting his vitals checked and Brad, who was apparently one of the assistant nurses, performing various monologues about his love of food.

Greg still wasn't too clear about the details.

That was six hours ago. Now, it was three in the morning and he was currently curled up on the side of the couch with Nick leaning heavily against his shoulder, the other man hogging the blanket that was supposed to be draped over both of them. But the heater was on, and Greg was warm enough to pretend he didn't have the energy to readjust the blanket so he wouldn't risk waking Nick.

Remote in hand, Greg continued flipping through channels on the TV. The light from the screen seemed abnormally bright in the otherwise darkened living room, encompassing Greg and flashing intermittently each time Greg changed the channel. He didn't expect anything interesting to be on this early in the morning. Aside from one of those bird documentaries only Nick would watch and an episode of a crime drama he tried and fail to get into, he wasn't disappointed. Eventually, he settled on a random infomercial, letting the remote fall somewhere in the couch as he felt Nick shift beside him.

Greg didn't plan on paying attention to it, though, not really. He closed his eyes, hoping the repetitiveness and monotony of some guy trying to sell the newest reincarnation of a handheld chopping appliance would lull him to sleep. The announcer's voice was fading into the back of his mind, becoming a kind of white noise until he said something about showing his nuts – jolting Greg like sharp static against the persistent sound of Nick snoring,

By all means, Greg should have been sleep, should have been on the bed and hidden under the comforter instead of stranded on the couch. The ID bracelet he received from the hospital was still around his wrist, but he was too tired to worry about taking it off. He was utterly exhausted, and whatever painkillers and sedatives left running through in his system were enough to ensure that he would remain so for at least another day.

He slept on the ride home from the hospital, evidently drooling on both his hand and the seat, and Nick had somehow managed to get him into the house through some combination of carrying and dragging that ultimately led to Nick dumping Greg on the bed.

And then he had that dream again.

Greg wasn't sure why or if there was really anything he could attribute it to, but it came back. The nightmare he'd finally been able dodge for a few days was suddenly in his thoughts once more, and it had nothing to do with what took place in Mesquite. Some part of him almost wished it did, almost wished he dreamed about the near-death experience. Because at least he would have some kind of reasoning, know why a dream was able to inspire so many seemingly baseless fears that made him feel alone and trapped in the dark.

He wasn't surprised to find himself on the bed when he woke up. The light from the hallway was on and he opened his eyes to see Nick's back facing him. He couldn't go back to sleep, though, and wandered to the bathroom, cringing when he looked in the mirror and saw his neck for the first time. But even seeing the bruises wasn't enough to distract Greg. It was easy to ignore the things he could see, scars that would disappear if he looked away. But he couldn't ignore the ones he couldn't see, not if they were there if he closed his eyes.

Twenty minutes later Nick found Greg in the kitchen hunched over his laptop. He was picking up the research on human trafficking he started a few weeks ago, trying to dull his mind with whatever information he could find about child laundering in China. Too engrossed with the information on the screen, Greg didn't hear Nick walk in the kitchen and was startled when the other man took a seat beside him at the table.

Nick didn't question why he was awake and only suggested Greg lay on the couch if he couldn't stay on the bed. Remnants of the nightmare that was keeping him awake still lurked in the corner of his mind, but it was the drowsiness in Nick's voice that eventually convinced Greg to move and the consuming guilt that followed when Nick offered to stay on the couch with him – trying to smile despite appearing worn out and jokingly asking Greg to pretend to close his eyes so Nick wouldn't have to go asleep alone.

It didn't take Nick long to get one of the big blankets out of the closet. He came back to living room when Greg turned on the TV, unfolding the blanket as he settled next to Greg and unfolding the blanket over them. And by the time Greg dropped the remote on the couch, Nick was already sleeping.

Greg closed his eyes again. The announcer's voice was growing fainter, words lost and quickly forgotten somewhere between the hum of light breathing intertwined with Nick's heavy snoring.

Allowing himself to be pulled further into the embrace, Greg relaxed when Nick unconsciously tightened the hold around his waist. He laid his head on top of Nick's, short hairs tickling Greg's cheek as he finally drifted off to sleep.

* * *

"Classified?" Sara asked, confusion marring her features. She took the nearly blank sheet of paper Nick gave her, skimming through the short list of information on Stephen White quickly. "He's on CODIS, and the FBI doesn't think it's important enough to let us know why?"

Nick shook his head. "Obviously, it's important enough to get his name in there, if nothing else." He shrugged. "Hey, I don't think it makes any sense, either."

"Okay, but what about what came up with the prints from the knife Grissom found? Did Mandy get anything from that?"

"The one he used to stab Evans and Meyers? Same deal – all that came up was his name, date of birth, and the last known address from ten years ago. No family, no contact information. _Nothing_."

"Nothing," Sara repeated. She placed White's file on the table, the light from beneath piercing through the sheet of paper. "It's starting to look more and more like somebody was trying to hide something and not just a lack of information."

Nick nodded in agreement. White seemed more like someone it was better to keep track of, and he could only wonder why White wasn't already behind bars. But it wasn't just because White was the one who attacked Greg. Nick wouldn't deny the fact that Greg was hurt – _almost died_ – fuelled much of his growing resentment toward White. However, personal feelings aside, it was more than clear what the guy was capable of and somebody had to have known about it if he was in the system.

White was still out there, and Nick didn't relish not knowing where White was, nor what he was doing. Two cops were dead, and while Nick was grateful that Greg wasn't the one with the knife perforations in his back, there was something perversely intimate about the act of strangling.

Nick had seen it before, worked a couple of cases involving assailants who went after one person or similar people. It was uncommon but not rare. Seldom would it result in death, yet most of the time, the victim unwillingly became part of a one-sided obsession that was nothing short of disturbing.

It was a thought that made Nick feel more than merely uneasy, something tangled inside a myriad of emotions, and he was doing his best not to dwell on it.

"Hide what, a sociopath put under witness protection?"

Sara scoffed. "Can't say I would be surprised because what don't they have to hide? But my thing, is why bother having him in the system in the first place when you could just as easily make it like he was never there?" she said as she gestured to White's file. "I mean, we don't even have a picture we can reference. Evans and Meyers are dead, and I don't Greg wants to put himself through hell again just to remember what this guy looks like."

"Yeah, well…just don't give him any ideas." Greg already admitted he wasn't able to get a good look at White's face, but it didn't mean Greg wouldn't try to remember if he thought it would help.

"Based on the history of this case and who's involved," Sara began dryly, "I'm going to be one of the last people Greg will have to worry about."

"I didn't mean it like that."

Sara brushed off the roundabout apology. "I'm just letting you know what I think," she said offhandedly. "And it's really starting to feel like Greg and I are the only ones who aren't in on the joke."

Nick raised his eyebrows. "What joke?"

"Apparently, this case."

"Honestly, Sara, I don't know that much more than you. It was the same thing for me then as it is for you now. We're on the same boat."

"Sorry, I just…" Sara shook her head. "I guess I'm trying to say you have more experience," she said somewhat reluctantly. "And I'm just aggravated right now."

"Run it for me then," Nick said, trying to placate her. "Tell me what you know, and we'll get something from there."

Sara took a deep breath, turning her attention to the large board on the wall. It was a frantic collection of information relevant to the case, littered with various documents, maps, pictures, and handwritten notes on colorful pieces of paper – everything held together by an assortment of tacks, strips of tape and staples.

"Okay," she began, "starting with the Harrisons. They started the fire to hide the little girl they killed but blackmailed the neighbour into calling the fire department ahead of time, before the fire even started."

"And we weren't able to get anything on Dawkins other than tax evasion."

"Right, so you would think the Harrisons did it because they felt guilty and wanted somebody to find the girl. And I did think that until Warrick and Greg told me about Peterson."

"She gave us copies of the transactions she had with the Harrisons, along with any financial records that had to do with Baitu."

"Legally, we still don't have enough evidence to subpoena the information from the other account numbers to link them to the case," Sara pointed out. The Harrisons are probably the only ones willing to tell us what's going on. That's how we confirmed the connection with Baitu."

"And there's a pretty good chance he's Stephen White."

"Still, the only thing we having tying White to this case is coincidence and the card Davis gave Greg at the warehouse. For all we know, what happened in Mesquite could be something else altogether. I know we found a lot by the landfill, but most of the evidence we found can't point us to anyone."

"There's Davis, too. Greg saw her at the Harrisons' house and again at the warehouse, and now we can't find her. It's like she never existed."

"Child trafficking, drug smuggling…no wonder the FBI is involved."

Nick straightened in his chair, propping one arm on the table. "This is what it's like. And in a city like Vegas…people just don't caught like they should."

* * *

He took the bandage off yesterday, and even though the skin around the incision from his impromptu cricothyrotomy was still sensitive, it was on its way toward healing. Dr. Sobule told him it wouldn't leave a noticeable scar, but either way, Greg was just happy he no longer looked like he had a breathing tube sticking out of his neck.

It did wonders for his image.

Unlike the bruises around Greg's throat and the swelling caused because of them. They weren't as angry as they were before, but the purple and blue blotches weren't the battle scars he was going to readily share any time soon. Eventually they'd fade, though. He wasn't so confident about the emotional scars. Permanent stains in his mind more violent than the marks on his neck.

Time and patience was pretty much the sum of it, what it was going to take; time and patience Nick wouldn't hesitate to offer in that annoyingly unyielding way of his. Not that Greg did ask. He didn't need to. It was something unspoken between them, something he'd didn't have to think to question, and it made Greg feel better by knowing he had that kind of support.

But the reassurance didn't make Greg any less self-conscious when he finally came back to work.

He received a few stares, which he more or less much he expected. There were some concerned glances, short conversations about how he was doing that Greg couldn't avoid. Though, both instances only involved the small crowd of people he knew on more than a last name-only basis. The long walk to Grissom's office wasn't as long as it initially seemed, and Greg managed to convince himself the majority of his colleagues had better things to do with their time than to watch his every move.

Things, logic told him, like work.

Experience forced Greg to agree. During his days in the lab, when talking to Archie and Jacqui was more than enough to keep him up to speed, news would simply come and go. There was too much going on to be fixated on one thing, even when it may have pertained to a case. It was no more than fodder to help pass the time and keep their minds off what they were exposed to on a daily basis.

Still, the logic behind his thoughts didn't dispel Greg's insecurity, and the lack of rational influence was prominent enough to make Greg grab that ugly brown turtleneck on Nick's side of the closet. The itchy one a couple of sizes too big that was possibly the true cause behind the aforementioned stares, a possibility becoming more likely considering it was more than eighty degrees outside.

Greg didn't ask to borrow the sweater, and when he walked into the kitchen this morning Nick didn't say anything about Greg wearing it. He may have looked at Greg strangely for a few seconds, but if Nick had an opinion to go along with the low chuckle Greg pretended not to hear, the other man kept it to himself.

Although in all honestly, Nick would have preferred if Greg actually made use of the remainder of his sick leave. It was a point he'd been trying to stress for the past two days, but Greg considered nearly a week confined home and away from work somewhat discouraging. While he was far from expecting to return to fieldwork anytime soon, he still had an obligation to see this case through and do what he could to contribute despite the recent setback.

Yesterday made his situation even more jarring when Nick came through the door with a white envelope his hands and dropped it in Greg's lap. And after opening what turned out to be a get-well card from Wendy, Greg decided four days was more than enough time to recuperate. Though, apparently, Nick wasn't the only one to disagree.

Subsequent to nearly being dragged into his old lab the moment he tried to inconspicuously walk past her, Greg discovered Wendy was only part of a growing number of people who didn't quite agree – managing to divulge her disapproval somewhere in between her surprise at seeing him and Greg's hurried attempt to thank her for the card.

The same incredibly cutesy card still on the coffee table where Greg left it, the pale blue one that had a little white teddy bear holding a red heart with words "miss you" written across it. Nick told him it was adorable, even claiming the bear's eyes resembled Greg's. Needless to say, the comment resulted with Greg shoving Nick off the couch and effectively wiping the teasing smile off the other man's face.

Nick may have had a penchant for it, but Greg just wasn't the type to go for the cutesy things. Even so, Greg truly did appreciate the card and the gesture behind it considering he and Wendy weren't really that close, if at all. Or at least they weren't beforehand. Of course, there was the harmless flirting between them, more an attempt on his part than hers, and the occasional small talk. He knew she cared to some extent, as he would with a colleague, but it still surprised him she would go out of her way. Or maybe the real surprise was when he opened the card and saw Hodges' signature right below Wendy's.

Greg wasn't even vaguely curious to know what kind of coercion had to have taken place to get Hodges to even look at the card, much less sign it. But any misgivings he had about the relationship between Wendy and Hodges took a backseat to the apprehension he felt when he finally reached the end of the hall and knocked on Grissom's door.

"Come in, Greg."

Opening the door slowly, Greg made no rush to walk into the office. He may have felt ready to come back to work, but the extent of what he would be able to do – if he would able to do anything at all – was ultimately determined by Grissom.

He took a seat in one of the chairs in front of Grissom's desk, trying to relax beneath the scrutiny of the other man's gaze.

"You look better," Grissom said lightly, crossing his arms as he leaned back against his chair.

"Yeah, and I feel better, too."

"But does that mean you're well enough to come back?"

"I'm here, aren't I?"

"Greg…" Grissom took his glasses off, sighing as he placed them on his desk. "Honestly, I think it may be better to take you off the case."

Frowning, Greg looked at Grissom in confusion. This wasn't how he anticipated his conversation with Grissom to go. He doubted his supervisor would actually take him off the case, but it still made Greg wary that Grissom was thinking about it enough to openly discuss it. He expected to compensate for what he missed, pick up the slack so he could fill in the gaps caused by knowing only what Nick was willing to tell him. Being taken off the case was the last thing on his mind.

"Because I was attacked? Look, I'm not exactly shying away from coming back."

"No. I'm more concerned with how it's affecting you, and more importantly, how it could affect you."

"You're not going to bring up the panic attack," Greg said flatly. He hoped Grissom wasn't referring to what happened during his stay in the hospital. It exposed a side of him he thought he left behind, but it was already over and done with, and Greg resolved not be that vulnerable again.

"You just did."

Greg blinked, staring blankly at the other man. "You can't be serious."

"Why wouldn't I be? Whether you want to admit it or not, you're in a susceptible position right now, and I need to make sure it won't interfere with your work before I let you come back."

"It won't," Greg said firmly. "I'm not asking to go back into the field anytime soon, but don't take me off the case when we're finally getting somewhere, not when you know I'm better off here."

Grissom rubbed his forehead, another sigh escaping him as Greg waited for a response. However, both men turned when the door suddenly opened and Ecklie stepped inside. But he didn't come alone. Following behind him were the two FBI agents Greg met last week, Tyler and Perry.

Perry crossed his arms, leaning against the wall as Tyler closed the door behind them. Despite the office being relatively office, they kept their distance, purposely creating space between themselves and Grissom and Ecklie, who were on the other side of the room. The tension was palpable, and it did little to put Greg at ease when he realised he was inadvertently caught in the middle.

"Gil, we've got a…" Ecklie began, trailing off when he took notice of Greg. "Sanders," he said politely, almost as if recognizing Greg was an afterthought. His eyes trailed along Greg's neck, but he refrained from saying anything about the bruises. "Nice to see you back at work."

"Yeah…" Greg answered hesitantly. "Thanks."

Ecklie turned back to Grissom, gesturing his head at Greg. "Is he–"

"Does it really make a difference?" Perry interrupted, not bothering to hide his impatience. "If he's on your team and following this case, it shouldn't. Let's just get on with this before we waste more time than we have to."

Tyler looked at her partner admonishingly, but nodded her head in agreement. "There's a lot of ground we need to cover."

Ecklie pursued his lips. "No. No, I guess it doesn't," he said shortly, his words negating any chance for Greg to leave. He turned back to Grissom, a grim smile on his lips. "Not that they need an introduction, but you remember Tyler and Perry?"

"How could I forget?"

Perry snorted. "With the history between us, I'd actually be bothered if you did."

Grissom ignored the comment, turning his attention to Tyler. "I thought you'd at least give us a few more weeks."

"Yeah, but that was until we heard you ran into Stephen White."

* * *

"Alice Davis," Catherine said as she entered the room, heels clicking on the floor as Warrick came in behind her.

Nick and Sara glanced in their direction, their attention quickly turning to the photograph and the short stack of papers Warrick placed on the table.

"Our Davis?" Nick asked as Catherine and Warrick took seats facing Nick and Sara. "The one who–"

"Yep, one and the same," Catherine said with a certainty that became somewhat less sure. "Or it seems to be that way."

Sara made a face. "Come on, either she is or she isn't."

"We're hoping she is," Warrick answered. "See, Mandy was able to pull a partial from Greg's card. It was a long shot, but we got a couple of possible matches from AFIS and one of belonged to an Alice Davis in Vegas."

"So, if this is Davis, then she's already in the system," Nick said thoughtfully. They already knew she wasn't a cop, or at least not one on the LVPD payroll. "For what, though?"

"She was booked here for prostitution fifteen years ago," Warrick added, "when she was she twenty-two."

Sara frowned, eyes narrowing at the picture of Davis. "She doesn't look anywhere near twenty-two. She doesn't even look eighteen. How'd somebody let that one get by?"

"Just because it's on paper doesn't mean it's true," Catherine pointed out.

"Yeah, but…"

Nick shrugged, gaze moving from the picture of Davis to Catherine and Warrick. "Good genes, I don't know, but you still haven't told us what any of this has to do with White."

Catherine glanced at Nick, a look of something akin to a warning on her face. "It's more or less speculation at this point, but there's a chance they know or even knew each other. Maybe going as far to say they could be related."

"But that doesn't make any sense," Sara said. "I know we don't exactly have a lot on the guy and his file isn't really that much of reliable source, but White's relatives weren't omitted. They're written down as deceased."

"Could be there to throw us off," Nick said. "But maybe this would help explain how Davis knew where White lived. The card she gave Greg had his address in Mesquite, and the one on file is from Vegas."

"Well, turns out her uncle poster her bail on the same day she was arrested, two hours after she was picked up. "Warrick said. "But get this: the uncle's name is Stephen White."

"Fluke?" Sara asked.

"Then this case is apparently full of them," Catherine countered.

Nick snorted. If it was the same White, the guy sounded more like Davis' pimp than her uncle, which, unfortunately, was a more tolerable image of White. But if the White then was mixed up in things he was linked to now, it was incredibly convenient no one looked any further into a man eager to post bail for his wayward niece, who looked more like child than an adult.

Too convenient if it took as much time as Warrick said and Davis managed to evade serving any time.

"Wait a sec – you said she was in for prostitution, right?" Nick asked again, only asking to confirm his suspicions. He had a feeling the prostitution angle was only scratching beneath the surface.

"Yeah," Catherine answered.

"How many years ago?" he asked as he retrieved one of the Polaroid pictures from the evidence board. He placed it on top of Davis' file, adjacent to the more recent photo of her taken at the time of her arrest.

"Fifteen," Warrick said slowly as he examined the two pictures side-by-side.

"Tell me I'm not just seeing things," Nick said uncomfortably. The similarities between the two girls were more than simply apparent. They may have been taken a few years apart, but with the same facial structure and that same haunting stare, it looked like it was Davis in both photos.

He only wished they had someone or some kind verification to prove it.

"Oh," Catherine said, taking a step back as she came out of a brief daze.

Sara looked at the woman curiously. "I thought you found the picture _with_ the girl when you guys found her in the dumpster?"

"We did," Catherine said. "It's…definitely not possible. It can't be possible," she said slowly, the conviction in her voice wavering. "The timelines don't even match up."

"What if you were wrong?" Nick asked.

"We found the photo attached to her," Catherine said decisively. "Someone actually went the extra mile to staple it to her shirt and to her skin."

"Then maybe they're sisters," Warrick suggested. "And maybe White really is her – their – uncle."

"So, it's a family affair, now," Sara said.

Warrick made a noise in agreement. "A dysfunctional one, I'll tell you that."

"Okay," Catherine said seriously. "Let's find out where Greg fits into this, then. That could give us some idea of Davis' motive if she has one."

"She could be reaching out…for whatever reason," Nick said. "Help…not so direct revenge," he added quickly.

"Why Greg, though?" Sara asked, tilting her head slightly.

"He was at the right place?" Warrick suggested.

Nick pursed his lips. "And look how that turned out."

"If that was the case," Sara said, turning to Warrick, "then she could have come to any one of us."

"Well," Catherine began, "it's not like he's a hard person to approach."

Nick didn't say anything, but he silently agreed. Though, he didn't miss the underlying meaning of Catherine's words. He wouldn't call Greg naïve – a little too trusting maybe, like Grissom but without enough experience to make him as cynical. Not yet anyway.

"Nothing against Greg, but then why not just go to the cops?" Sara asked. "Better yet, why not tell somebody about it a long time ago? Get help. Why wait all these years?"

Catherine shrugged. "Maybe she couldn't. Deep into something like this – you're putting your head on the line with anything that involves money or drugs."

"Or maybe she's not the victim anymore," Warrick said cautiously. "I'm not trying to play devil's advocate, but we don't know what her situation was – _is_ – and we can't overlook the chance she's still part of it."

* * *

"His real name is Wei-Han Chen," Tyler said wearily, dropping a thick manila folder on Grissom's desk that landed with a heavy clunk. "Or at least it was before he gained US citizenship. He came over from China in the late 80's and has been a pain in our asses ever since."

Greg looked at the folder, silently trying to gauge how someone like White was able to keep under the radar. At first glance, judging by the size of the bulging folder alone, it seemed like there was more than enough evidence to put White away. While Greg was aware White was the one who tried to strangle him, he also knew White was responsible for killing Evans and Meyers, but didn't want to think about what else White was involved in. Not when he was someone so nonchalant about taking another person's life.

Yet, if the FBI knew what White was capable of, why didn't they say anything before?

Debating his earlier decision to remain quiet, Greg was tempted to ask. It was an earnest question, not only because withholding the information had a direct effect on him, but rather because it honestly didn't make sense. Though, Greg still wasn't eager to get in the middle of whatever it was that was going on and eventually opted to let the conversation play itself out.

Surprisingly, it was Ecklie who voiced Greg's concerns...something along those lines.

"And bringing this to light never crossed your mind? I don't know – maybe sometime _before_ we had the run in with White?"

Perry pushed himself off the wall, taking a defensive stance beside his partner as he crossed his arms over his chest. "We didn't think it wasn't something you needed know then."

"And because you didn't think," Ecklie continued reproachfully, "two officers from Mesquite are dead, and one of my people is still suffering the consequences for it."

Greg could feel Tyler staring him, her gaze wandering to the darkened areas not covered by his collar. He didn't turn around, didn't want to confirm what didn't need to be said. He kept his eyes on Grissom, watching the other man's reactions and waiting for him to speak.

"Which isn't more than a result of unfortunate circumstances and something we had no direct part in," Perry retorted.

"No, I never claimed you did," Ecklie said calmly. He glanced at Grissom, the two men sharing a look Greg couldn't decipher before Ecklie turned his attention back to Perry. "But you're saying that telling us about White couldn't have passed for preventive measures when you were fully aware there was a possibility he was involved with this case?"

"And that's why we can't keep a hold on White," Tyler said determinedly, a hint of irritation seeping into her voice. She pushed a strand of brown hair behind her ear, her thin lips set in a straight line. "Nobody's willing to talk. People know what he does, but nobody wants to turn him in, and as soon as word of this investigation gets out…"

"Then we're really shit out of luck," Perry filled in.

"Not exactly how I would have worded it, but David's right," Tyler said. "Regardless, the point is we've already drawn enough suspicion to ourselves and can't afford any more. We're on the verge of finally breaking into this trafficking ring, but you and your team snooping around–"

"Snooping around?" Grissom asked, looking at Tyler and Perry warily. The tone of his voice was cool, and there was a forced calmness Greg didn't miss. "You can't expect us to follow boundaries that were never set."

"I heard it's not necessarily something you feel the need to adhere to," Perry began forcefully, the aggravation clear in his voice, "but on our side, we have protocol and regulations we can't ignore anytime we want."

Greg turned to Perry sharply, taken back by the remark that hit a little too close to home. He knew he didn't always go by the book, but no one was free from making mistakes, and it didn't prevent him from doing his best.

However, despite being in a branch of law enforcement different than Tyler and Perry, Greg at least thought they were on the same side because they were after the same type of people. And aside from knowing something happened ten years ago between the other occupants in the room, he didn't understand where all the animosity was coming from.

"You're one of the last people to be throwing around accusations, Perry," Ecklie countered, appearing noticeably less composed than usual.

"We're not going to make any progress at this right," Grissom said tightly. "It's either give or take at this point because I can see we're going to have some trouble trying to compromise."

Tyler shook her head. "More than ten years, Grissom. I've spent more than ten years of my life chasing after this guy, only to have one lead fall through after another. You can't even _begin_ to imagine the kind of bastard we're dealing with."

"I'm not going to argue a moot point," Grissom said offhandedly. "But if you don't tell us what's going, then we won't be able to help you."

"Believe me, I would have handed everything over in a minute, but I _can't_."

"We're pushing the limits enough as it for something as sensitive as this," Perry added.

"Then at least give us something we can work with," Ecklie said. "Because we're not going to drop this one anytime soon, not like what happened before."

"Damned if I do and damned if I don't, right?"

"Then you might as well do, Jessica," Grissom said to Tyler, voice rising slightly in anger. "Since all you've been able to accomplish so far is getting my team put in the crossfire because _you_ feel the need to withhold certain information pertaining to what's going on."

"There's convention, and then there's being held accountable for your actions," Ecklie said resignedly.

"It's not White we're after," Tyler finally admitted after a moment of silence. "We don't know his real name, but we do know some of aliases he's used in the past. Nothing new in the past five years, though. We're hoping he's still circulating the older ones. You remember Li Davis?" she asked.

Grissom and Ecklie nodded while Greg's interested peaked at the mention of the name Davis. There was a pretty good chance it had something to do with the same officer Davis who gave him the card the led them to Stephen White.

Perry continued. "He's been around since the beginning of one of the largest international smuggling rings in the world – any kind of drug out there, any kind of person out there. Yeah, we caught a few breaks and broke some of the smaller networks, but opportunities like this don't come too often for us. So, you can see why we're a little on edge."

"More than usual," Ecklie said, but Grissom spoke before Tyler or Perry had a chance to respond.

"There's something else you're not saying," he said curiously.

"You always were the perceptive one, weren't you," Tyler mused, her gaze flickering to Perry and returning to Grissom. "But yeah, you're right," she agreed reluctantly. "It's just not something David and I like to bring up."

"What?" Ecklie asked.

"That White used to be one of us."

* * *

_Remember the stuff from the first chapter? I didn't either, so this was a much needed filler...recap kind of...thing-ie with twists and turns that hopefully no one saw coming. This includes the hint of one-sided Hodges/Wendy that was supposed to serve as some kind of comic relief. Based on canon, it just seemed like the kind of thing Hodges would do._

_And I know I took liberties with some aspects of this chapter, making use of that famed "TV magic"despite the lack of TV. But I still can't bring myself to feel bad because this is CSI I'm writing about, and I do love my drama. Though, I'll make no comment about the last part._

_Regardless, I'm finally back on the case and just about ready to wrap up this little bugger. Next chapter will be a bit more emotionally driven (yet again) because of Nick's delayed anger, which I find highly enjoyable to write. There's just something about Nick angry, reacting on impulse...like angry Grissom from seasons past, and I'll stop right there._

_Errant thoughts aside, thank you for reading and thank you **LaugableBlackStorm** and **QueenOfTheUniverse** for reviewing._


	10. Part Ten

_And the White Knight is talking backwards…_

--

Oddly enough, it was a text message that tipped them off, eventually taking them to a hotel a couple of miles outside of the Strip. Nick thought it was stranger still or maybe even appropriate that Greg was the one to receive it. Artisan and 402 was all it read, but Greg had somehow managed to connect it to the hotel off Sahara Avenue.

Needless to say, the tip was legit, and 402 turned out to be a room registered to a name Nick knew all too well.

He recognised the fact that there was more than one Stephen White in existence, probably more than just a handful in Vegas alone. The name was common, no less rare than Nick's own name. For all intents and purposes, finding a Stephen White in a hotel could be nothing more than another blind lead. Not to mention they didn't even have a picture of White to work from.

However, five days ago, this White checked into the Artisan.

Five days ago, the White they were looking for killed two officers and attacked Greg.

Aside from Nick's reluctance to jump the gun, he could admit that it wasn't really that much of a stretch. Perhaps convenient, though: the kind of convenient that led up to the incident in Mesquite. Then again, Nick had trouble trying to think of anything pertaining to the case that wasn't. What they stumbled upon so far seemed to miraculously put itself together in a way Nick couldn't believe was anything but deliberate.

Even the timing fit. White didn't check in the hotel until after midnight, around the same time Nick returned to Vegas. There was a six hour window between the time Nick left for the hospital and the time Nick got to the lab, and it was more than enough for White to make the trip from Mesquite to Vegas.

Although, White didn't seem the type who would want to get caught, much less flaunt any exploits to the authorities. Killing Evans and Meyers seemed more spontaneous, and didn't match up with the man who'd been able to dodge the FBI for the last ten years. But if White was careless enough to leave the murder weapon at the crime scene, Nick wasn't sure he could rely on his reasoning.

Yet, it brought him back to the only constant in this case, the one person who'd been under their noses the entire time and could probably answer more than just a few questions – Alice Davis. They were still trying to trace the phone that sent the text message and hadn't exactly confirmed it came from Davis, though Nick would be more surprised if it wasn't. It had to be. Following the logic of this case, there was no one else it could be, no one else it should be.

Maybe it was narrow thinking, a sense of paranoia that was steadily building, but Nick believed whatever role Davis was playing, she was far from being the innocent bystander or some hapless victim. It was obvious she was a key contender in what was going on and in Nick's eyes just as culpable as White the moment she brought Greg into it.

Her interest in Greg, regardless of its impact on the case, posed a multitude of problems and played upon too many of the potential fears that Nick thought he already buried a long time ago. But his concern about how much Davis did know easily became concern about how much she didn't know, and, by association, if any of it came back to White. Because it scared Nick that she was able to get a hold of Greg's cell number, a number that was listed as private and not one Greg gave away freely – definitely not something Davis should have known.

Circumstances aside, it was more than enough to rub Nick the wrong way, and he was glad he wasn't alone in the sentiment.

"I don't know," one of the officers in front of Nick said warily, Rogers if Nick remembered correctly. "The whole thing sounds a little too clean if you ask me."

Nick silently agreed, but he wasn't in the mood to participate in the ongoing conversation. He was breathing hard, fast, chest swelling in anticipation. His body was taunt, the grip on his gun tightening while the thought of finally coming face to face with White continued to fuel the sudden onslaught of adrenaline.

Footsteps echoed throughout the stairwell, loud and harsh sounds reflecting off the walls of confined area secluded from the rest of the hotel. They were only on the second floor, on the verge of passing the third, but Nick felt like he'd been going up and down all day.

"Good thing no one is," Parker said lightly, but the attempt at humour didn't cover the hesitancy in his voice. He paused behind Rogers, Nick stopping right behind him as Sofia opened the door to the leading to the fourth floor.

She let Rogers and Parker go before her, grabbing Nick's arm when he tried to follow them. "I'm not going to say you're not supposed to be here."

Nick kept his expression on his face neutral but didn't say anything. His relationship with Greg wasn't public knowledge, much less something the majority of his colleagues needed to be aware of. Only a few people from work knew about it, which had more to do with Greg being kidnapped than Nick and Greg being overt in front of others. To his knowledge, Ecklie didn't even know, and Nick wanted to keep it that way.

He wasn't sure if Sofia picked up on it – not that he'd been doing a good job keeping his emotions in check lately – but as long as she didn't ask about it, he wasn't going bring it up.

"I don't want you in the room until we clear it," she warned, squeezing Nick's arm and then letting go. "If it is White, then–"

"Got it," Nick said tersely, following her gaze to the gun in his hand. A thin layer of sweat was the only barrier between his finger and the trigger. And considering Nick already took the safety off, she trusted him a hell of a lot more than he trusted himself right now.

He sighed when Sofia nodded at him, her weapon already drawn as she made the short walk to room 402, where Rogers and Parker were waiting. Side pressed against the adjacent wall, Nick listened for anything inside the room as Sofia knocked on the door.

"Stephen White. Las Vegas Police, open up!"

Sofia waited a moment, Parker and Rogers tensing on either side of her, and knocked again, her fist more or less pounding against the door.

There was a rustling noise, someone on the other side not exactly trying to hide their presence. She frowned at the lack of reply. "Always have to do things the hard way," she said offhandedly, somewhat irritated as she backed away and nodded at Parker, who used a keycard to open the door.

Nick pushed himself off the wall when Sofia entered the room.

"Freeze!" she yelled as she made her way into the room, catching sight of someone Nick assumed to be White. "I said _freeze_," she repeated. "Put your hands in the air!"

"Get them up, now!" Rogers said coarsely, Nick following his movement as the other man rushed past Sofia.

Gun still in hand, Nick trailed Parker into the room. He expected to see a struggle or an attempt to escape. Instead, he was met the sight of a tall man facing the window. There was none of the typical resistance or shock that usually followed when the police came through the door – the one that followed because everybody had something to hide, regardless of whether the person was innocent or not.

And they were supposed to run when they were guilty.

Nick waited for him to do something, turn around at the least, but he stood still, his hands raised as Sofia and Rogers approached him from behind.

"Stephen White," Sofia said, putting away her gun and reaching for a pair of handcuffs. "You're under arrest for assault and battery and the murders of Derrick Evans and Adam Meyers."

White didn't protest when Sofia began to read him his rights, still quiet when she grabbed his hands and cuffed his wrists behind his back. He had more than a few inches on her and probably a couple inches on Warrick, too, but he seemed strangely cooperative as Sofia turned him around and maneuvered him out of the room.

Nick frowned when he saw White's face, the man's expression blank, and Nick unable to place him. He left the room, moving backing into the hall as Sofia ushered White through the doorway.

Then White turned to him, eyes locking with his, surreal and so brief a moment Nick could have easily imagined if it weren't for the smile that didn't leave White's face. Haughty, _knowing_, Nick's eyes hardened at the corners of the other man's mouth curling slightly in a way that Nick found disturbingly familiar.

* * *

"Not that you had a much of a choice, but I think it's better to err on the side of caution," Sara said plainly, unknowingly repeating the words Nick relayed to Greg earlier this morning.

Since Greg received the text possibly giving the location of Stephen White from the unknown number, Nick had been more wary than usual, even checking the house for what Greg suspected to be evidence of some type of hidden surveillance. But Greg didn't say anything about it because he couldn't dispute experience, not the kind Nick had that pretty much warranted the behaviour.

And maybe, even if he could only admit it to himself, just maybe the idea that someone outside of the circle of people he knew was able to reach his private number scared him more than he was willing to let on.

"But really, it's just a phone," Sara continued, trying to placate Greg.

"I don't think that's the point here," he replied as he followed her down the hall leading to Archie's lab, moving a little faster to walk beside her.

"Well, I think it's nice. Definitely better than the piece of junk I have." Sara looked at the phone in her hand appreciatively. It was one of the newer models, black, sleek, and part of an introductory plan that Greg could actually afford.

Or at least he could actually afford it as soon as that rebate worth half the phone came in the mail.

Of course, he probably wouldn't get it until sometime next year, maybe by December if he was lucky, but he could wait a few months for a hundred dollars because that kind of money went a long way.

Greg made a noncommittal noise as Sara gave the phone back to him. "Not as nice as my old one, though."

"Your old one wasn't even a month old."

"What? I can't like nice things now?"

Sara snorted. "Sure, but a few years ago, I'd never picture you as a phone junkie."

"Like I said, I like nice things, especially when they're new and _shiny_," he said jokingly, laughing at the expression on Sara's face as he put his phone in his back pocket. "Plus, things change. And I was going to switch carriers, anyway."

"They why are you so upset about it?" she asked, stopping right outside of the A/V lab. "Better yet, what's more important: your life or your phone?"

Greg pretended to hesitate. "…my phone?"

"Your phone," Sara said flatly.

"And I mean that somewhat truthfully."

"Do I even want to know why?"

"It's because he's lazy and thinks CDMA phones are better," Archie said from inside the lab. "And unless he has a list of contacts saved on his computer somewhere…"

"Which you know I don't," Greg said, looking at Archie pointedly.

"Then he's going to have to put all of the numbers back in, one by one."

"But I don't think I should have to put myself through something so tedious again."

"Really?" Sara scoffed, sparing a glance to Greg as they walked into the lab. "And how long is keying in five numbers going to take?"

"Thank you, Sara," Greg began dully as he took a seat, "for putting me down every chance you get."

"It means a lot to me, too."

Archie laughed as he sat in the chair between Sara and Greg. "GSM, man. Portable information all the way."

"Whatever." Greg rolled his eyes. "Anyway, could you get anything of the tapes Tyler and Perry gave us?"

"Uh, yeah," Archie said quickly, immediately sobering as he turned his attention to the computer. His fingers trailed across the keyboard, prompting a video file to appear on the screen. "Honestly, it would have been a heck of a lot easier just to interview the Harrisons again."

"Too much for you?" Sara asked.

"Don't put words in my mouth, Sidle." Archie snorted, opening another window on the monitor. "The other was the old file. This one," he said, pointing to the screen as the video began to play without sound. "I starting trying to salvage what I could from you gave me, but it's going to take longer to clear up the audio. The mic they used to record didn't pick up much sound. Did you have a transcript of the interviews to hold you over?"

Sara pursed her lips. "Supposedly, they don't have one on record, somehow lost it."

"I already extracted the audio. Cleaning it up won't be an issue. I can remove most of the excess static and bring out individual voices, but again, it's going to take a while."

"How long are we talking about?"

"More than just a couple of hours."

"What about the picture?" Greg asked. "Can you brighten it without too much blur?" The video itself seemed no more than of an assortment of shadows crowded around a dim light hanging over a small table, with the Harrisons on one side and two FBI agents on the other. It was a long shot, but if they were able to make out the Harrisons' expressions, it could give them some idea of what was going on.

"And then you'll lose pixel quality," Archie replied. "The original lighting is just that bad, and I can't do anything about that. The problem isn't the tape. It's the original feed."

Greg looked at Archie in confusion. "We know it's a copy. Perry told us they weren't giving us the original."

"Other than files we already had, it wasn't the only physical evidence they'd give us," Sara added.

"Oh, that wasn't hard to figure out," Archie said. "The overall quality's pretty crappy, even for a VHS. When I was a kid, I used to have three VCR's hooked up to my TV, and this one make my old dubs look like high-def."

Sara frowned. "Okay, so what's the problem? If it's from the same source, it shouldn't matter, right?"

Archie shook his head. "Think of it like this: Let's say you're making more than one copy of a photo. You put the original on the copy machine and make a copy, right? Now instead of using the original again, you switch it with the first copy to make another copy. Then use that copy to make another copy."

Sara and Greg nodded slowly.

"Now, when you're making copies from copies, over time the quality gets worse since with each copy you gradually begin to lose the detail from the original source. Unless it's digital media, which is something else entirely."

"So, what does that tell us about the tape we have?" Sara asked.

"Two things: This isn't the first copy, but in this case, the copy aspect doesn't matter as much because it's basically what the original looked like anyway."

"What's the other thing?"

"That this tape was tampered with."

Greg tilted his head slightly. "What more could you do to it?"

"Apparently many things," Archie said reasonably. "See the small bar in the lower right-hand corner," he continued, enlarging the bar on the screen. "It's kind of distorted, but that's the original time code. Watch this." He paused the video, skipping ahead a few frames and then letting it play.

"Pay attention to the time code, and…" The video on the screen wavered. "There, did you see that?"

Greg blinked. "Somebody edited the tape."

Sara looked at Archie. "This one?"

"Probably one, or one of the tapes made before it. But yeah, the time jumps from 1:34 to 1:52."

"Eighteen minutes, gone just like that." Sara sighed. "Do you know how much time is missing altogether?"

"How many hours, you mean," Archie amended.

"Hours?" Greg repeated.

"_Hours_," Archie confirmed. "Out of twenty tapes."

"I don't like the way this looks." Sara crossed her arms and sat back in her chair. "I definitely don't like where this is going."

Greg shared a look with Sara. "I guess the question now is what will they tell us?"

Archie shook his head. "If you're missing hours from the twenty interrogation tapes they gave you – not a lot."

"Yeah," Sara agreed. "And I'm starting to think it's not the people on the outside we need to worry about."

* * *

It was amazing how fickle time could be, ironic how the mere concept of it seemed to elude Nick on a regular basis. Whether it meant a fleeting thought or a fruitless reminder of something he wasn't supposed to forget, there was always too much, always too little, and never enough to figure it out. Sometimes, it would leave him feeling stuck in the middle, trapped in some kind of mental purgatory only because he'd overlooked something he already should have known.

Or something he already knew but couldn't remember.

It hit him the moment he saw White in the hotel, nagging at him during the ride back to the station, and he still couldn't shake the feeling when he sat across from White in the interrogation room.

And now that White was in custody, Nick wasn't sure what to do with him, so much going through his mind he didn't know where to start. The eagerness and adrenaline he once had now deflated, he found his thoughts trailing to Rogers' words from earlier.

It did seem a little too clean. Albeit silently, White came willing, neither denying nor admitting to any of the changes. If he was even remotely worried about them, he wasn't showing it, apparently more than happy to go along with the ride. It made Nick think White expected it to happen, almost as if he planned to get caught.

The way White carried himself, stretching his arms above his head carelessly like he was at home rather than in a police station, the idea was becoming more plausible. Either way, Nick was tired of being dragged around by this case and hoped it would all end with answers from White – hopefully before the Feds tried to take him, too.

"Comfortable, yet?" Brass asked smartly, the translator beside him repeating his words to White in Mandarin.

White shrugged. The only time he'd spoken was while he was being led into the station, only a few words coming out, but none of it was discernable. They already knew White's background and that he had beyond a basic grasp of the English language, but it was more a matter of whether or not he would speak it and letting White believe he had the upper hand.

It wasn't likely White would divulge everything he knew, and it would be in their favour if White underestimated them and his overconfidence caught up with him.

White reached for the plastic cup in front of him, taking a few sips of water before placing the cup back on the table. "Really don't need her," he finally said as he gestured to the translator, but she made no effort to move. "My English is pretty damn good, you know."

Brass feigned surprise, though Nick had some difficulty differentiating it from one of the other man's more common sarcastic faces, which seemed to cover the scope of Brass' emotions. "And to think you were going to be considerate enough to humour us."

"It's easier to let people make their own assumptions," White replied simply, and Nick picked up something from his voice, something drawing his attention that had little to do with the fact White seemed to have lost his accent over the course of twenty years.

That nagging feeling was coming back.

Brass opened the thick folder in front on him, "Wei Han, aka, Steven White."

Nick thought he saw a flash of panic on White's face, but it was gone by the time he blinked. White looked carefree once more, too relaxed for someone in his position, and appeared much younger than the 47 year-old he was supposed to be.

"It's easier to pronounce," White said calmly, not backing away from Brass' gaze.

Brass smirked. "Anything else you care to enlighten me with?"

"Oh no, you caught me." Stephen held up his hands in mock surrender, the rattling sound of the handcuffs mingling with a deep chuckle. "What am I going to do now?"

Nick bit his lip, making a fist with the hand hidden beneath the table.

Scoffing, Brass shook his head. "You don't even care, do you?"

White casually leaned against his chair. "There you go making assumptions again. I care about a lot of things," he said evenly.

"Okay, I'll go for that," Brass replied. "But you see; it's _your_ prints on the knife that killed two cops, your DNA we found around someone's neck." He tsked, sliding the picture of the knife across the table to White. "I don't know. If I were in your shoes – of course I wouldn't be in this situation – but I guarantee you that these charges would be some of the things I cared about."

"I never say I didn't care."

"Mr. White," Nick said firmly, speaking to White for the first time. "We have more than enough evidence to put you away."

"Maybe you do, maybe you don't. For all I know, it could be circumstantial."

Nick sighed, uncurling the fist at his side. "We have your DNA and fingerprints not only placing you at the crime scene, but also corroborating your role as the perpetrator."

"You do?"

"Listen," Brass said, trying to cajole White. "We're all nice people here. You help us, and we'll make sure the DA doesn't put you up for the death penalty because, you know, we still have that."

White looked at Brass warily, narrowing his eyes. "We both know the input is always less than the output."

"Even if it's your life?"

"Who said that was the input?" White countered. "But since you're going to need me more than I'll need you, let me really humour you this time. For what?"

"Information on those little girls you're passing around, your running buddies, anything and anybody caught up in it. Those are lives you're playing with, not commodities."

"And can you prove, in your words, that I'm passing little girls around?"

"The Harrisons, Peterson, Baitu – we have names and know you're a big player in all of this."

"That's not what I asked. You're throwing accusations at me, and I want to know if you can prove it."

"Mr. White," Nick began, but was interrupted by White snapping his fingers, the other man turning his attention to Nick.

"I knew I saw you somewhere," he said triumphantly, as if he solved some sort of puzzle. "I almost didn't recognise you because you're actually talking to me and more than three words this time."

Brass looked at Nick, but Nick had nothing to say in response. He couldn't remember meeting White before today.

"Oh, how's he doing by the way?" White asked, gaze still on Nick. There was gleam in his eyes, a rich kind of hunger that made Nick unconsciously back away from the table. "I'm actually kind of curious."

Nick shook his head in confusion. "What – Who are you talking about?"

"If I remember you, you have to remember me." White sighed wistfully, a small smile on his face as if he were enjoying a memory. "I didn't have time to finish the job, otherwise I wouldn't be here. Still, he was like them, you know. They're all like that, eyes wide and scared when they know they're going to die." He put two fingers to his mouth, taking them away and then releasing a puff of air – like he was smoking.

Suddenly, it clicked in his mind, and Nick looked at White with wide eyes. "You're the…you're the guy I saw at the hospital."

The recognition only seemed to heighten the now crooked smile on White's face. "Are the bruises still on his neck?"

Nick wasn't sure when he moved, only that it was somewhere between the sound of his chair scraping across the floor and the sound of White's resonant laughter in his ear. "You sick son of a _bitch_," he whispered harshly, tightening his hold on White's shirt.

Brass was yelling his name, shouting at him, but Nick was too preoccupied with the man he was holding against the wall to care.

Because somehow White was still laughing, the rumbling and vibrations Nick could feel from beneath his fists reduced to a demented cackle that was somehow even more grating.

"How _precious_, he means something to you, doesn't he?" White said mockingly, voice soft enough for only Nick to hear. "You should have seen him squirming under me, begging me with his eyes to let him live. Good times with _Greg_."

"Stop it," Nick snarled, forced the words out of his mouth as his body trembled in anger.

"I almost had the heart to stop, too. Almost, but then I couldn't afford not to stop."

"_Shut up_."

"Although, you know what they say about those who wait…" White laughed again, the smile on his face turning into something more sadistic, more vicious, and reflective of the cruelty in his eyes. "Then I thought maybe I could follow him home to see that look on his face again, just to see if he remembered me. You wouldn't mind if I dropped by, would you?

White began to wheeze when Nick slammed him against the wall. "I said shut–"

The conversation with White couldn't have lasted more than a few seconds, had to have been less than a minute, and suddenly Nick felt himself being yanked away. But the sound of Brass' voice didn't replace sound of White's laughter still ringing in his ears.

"Back off, Stokes!"

Brass had him by the arm, the fingers pinching his skin past the verge of being painful by the time Nick was shoved across the room.

"I'm all right." Nick raised his hands in the air, backing away from Brass and the sight of White trying to catch his breath as his body slid down the wall. "I'm all right," he called out, ignoring the stares from Brass and the translator and the small crowd of people gathered outside the door.

"I want you out of here, Stokes!" Brass snapped.

"I said I was–"

"Now!"

* * *

Greg always saw Warrick as a man of conviction, always sure in his decisions and rarely indulgent in what he tended to refer to as self-pity. Warrick was confident in a way even Nick wasn't, in a way that uncovered the cracks Nick struggled to prevent anyone from seeing. It was a confidence that was bordering on arrogant, but Greg still hesitated to think of Warrick as cocky except in the not so uncommon occasion when Warrick took too much pleasure out of being right about something where Greg would be wrong.

But even then, any satisfaction on Warrick's part was more or less teasing Greg and often took place after a bet that rarely fell in Greg's favour.

So, it was strange to see a more subdued side of Warrick, a Warrick who looked defeated as he hunched over the table, and Greg continued to lean against the doorway, trying to make sense of it.

Greg knew it had to do with what happened in Mesquite. They hadn't actually seen each other since last Tuesday, but Greg knew Warrick was putting himself at fault, or at least beating himself over it. He could tell that much by the two phone calls they shared, Warrick asking Greg how he was doing and prolonging the conversations into intermittent and awkward silences that eventually led to Greg complaining about the need for good daytime TV and rambling about to the urge to write a book on the untold stories of Vegas, respectively.

Though, he had a feeling Warrick's lingering guilt had more to do with Holly Gribbs and his responsibility for her. Greg was close with Warrick. Not as close as Grissom, Catherine, or Nick, yet over the years he and Warrick developed something that was maybe a little bit more than friendly, brotherly, if Greg wanted to be optimistic. While he was aware of the details surrounding her death, Holly was something Warrick never really talked to Greg about it, much less seemed like it was a subject he wanted to breach.

Inhaling deeply, Greg stepped into the room and collapsed into the seat next to Warrick. "Hey," he said softly, watching Warrick's eyes scan the various papers spread over the table. "Sorry I missed you yesterday."

Warrick brushed away the apology but didn't look at Greg. "How was the day back?"

"After four hours of being stuck in a small room with Grissom, Tyler, Perry, _and_ Ecklie?" Greg snorted, earning a small smile from Warrick. "But yeah, I just forgot how much paperwork's involved in rejecting the recommended sick leave. You'd think it would be easier when actually you want to come back."

Warrick nodded his head absently. "You doing okay?"

"I'm fine," Greg answered quickly, embarrassment colouring his features when he realised the high pitch of his voice. "I mean, fine," he repeated. "Better than what I was at anyway rate."

Warrick closed his eyes, sighing heavily before turning his attention back to the papers on the table. "I'm…that's good."

"In fact, I bet Grissom's going to clear me for the field by tomorrow," Greg said playfully, grinning despite the disbelief on Warrick's face when the other man finally looked at him.

"Yeah, right. You're lucky he didn't put you on mandatory leave."

A comeback on the tip of his tongue, Greg paused when he realised he didn't have one. He'd concede to Warrick if it meant breaking the uncomfortable tension between them. He just wouldn't say anything about it out loud.

After a brief lapse into silence, Greg coughed in his hand. "Um, Sara said you had something for me?"

"Yeah," Warrick sail slowly, raising his eyebrows at Greg. "Need you to take a look at this picture of Davis and tell me if it's the same woman you saw."

"The one you guys found yesterday," Greg said thoughtfully. "Right, since I'm the only one who knows what she looks like at this point."

Warrick reached for a pair of photos in a separate folder on the edge of the table and gave them both to Greg. "Here…the one the right is from the first Polaroid. Nick had it blown up to match the one with Davis. It's not recent, but it's the only one we could find."

"It looks like Davis, a younger version, yeah, but that's not…" Greg frowned, trying to think why he didn't see the resemblance earlier.

"Look familiar?"

"They can't be the same person." Greg looked at Warrick. "Can they?"

"No. The pictures were taken ten years apart."

"It's scary how much they look alike, though. Do we know if the first girl is Davis' sister or something?"

"Anything short of getting a hold of Davis, no, but White is probably our best bet."

"You…you found White?" Greg asked tentatively, ignoring the fact that his hands started shaking. His voice faltered and it felt like the composure he'd been trying to regain the past week was being taken away from him.

They had White and that was – and that was good. It was really good, maybe even better than really good. Or maybe good was okay because good meant that White was detained, meant that he couldn't hurt anyone else and Greg didn't have to worry anymore.

A lifetime ago, five days passing more like an eternity, and Greg tried to convince himself it wasn't too soon. Five days was enough time to get over this, enough time to move on. It had to be.

But all he could think of was the hand around his neck, the voice in his ear, and heavy weight on top of him that wouldn't move.

There was a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently, and Greg peered up to see Grissom standing over him and Warrick looking at him expectantly.

"Nick and Sofia picked him up this morning," Grissom said, sharing a glance with Warrick before turning back to Greg.

Greg nodded, grateful neither Grissom nor Warrick mentioned his panic attack. It still wasn't as bad as the ones he used to have. "Nobody told me."

"You didn't ask," Grissom said simply, letting go of Greg's shoulder as his eyes lingered on Greg's hands, which were no longer shaking. "If it makes you feel any better, you're not the last one to find out."

"Now you're just patronising me," Greg said lightly, relaxing in his chair.

"Is White talking yet?" Warrick asked, looking to Grissom and reaching to pick up something from the floor. It was one of the pictures Greg had been holding, the one of Davis he must have dropped.

Greg nodded at Warrick. "Thanks," he said softly, putting the other photo still in his hand on the table.

Grissom shook his head. "He's not saying anything we want to hear."

"Of course," Warrick agreed. "He knows he has what we're looking for, and he's going to hold it over our heads until we cave in."

Greg frowned. "At least he's still willing to talk, though, right?"

"If it's on his terms," Grissom said hesitantly, almost reluctant t to continue. "And there's only one person he's willing to talk to."

"Who?" Greg asked, wary of the way Grissom and Warrick were looking at him.

"You."

* * *

Nick heaved a frustrated sigh, grateful for even the smallest respite offered in an empty locker room.

This whole day was wrong, everything gone down the drain. Abruptly and literally in the span of a few seconds, Nick lost it. He crossed that line between personal and professional and was selfish enough to forget he wasn't the only one who could face the consequences for it.

It wasn't just Greg, either. Even though there was a chance someone could connect the dots, look more into Nick's concern for Greg and see their relationship for what it was, Nick hoped the majority of people would either dismiss his confrontation with White or chalk it up to stress caused by the case and putting too of himself into it. But Grissom and Brass would be the ones who would cover for him, taking the brunt of any backlash and exposing themselves because Nick messed up.

Nick was lucky he only came out with a two day suspension, and considering how Grissom chewed him out, Nick was even luckier his supervisor didn't kick him off the case. It was more than Nick expected, and honestly, the leniency was more than he felt he deserved, probably more than what Greg would give him.

But maybe he'd pick up some Chinese food on the way home, use it to help break the news about his suspension to Greg. Somehow, Nick thought explaining to Greg why he was suspended would be less laboured with the temptation of shrimp fried rice on his side.

He scoffed at his own wishful thinking, leaning against his locker, eyes closed and head lowered as his bare arm rested on the cool metal surface.

As long as it didn't interfere with the job or the dynamics of the team, Grissom didn't really care much about Nick's relationship with Greg and was more than willing to turn a blind eye and look the other way. It wasn't necessarily a conscious decision when Grissom found out, something Nick admitted to in haste before Grissom inevitably found out another way. Since then, it hadn't really come up in conversation where work was concerned, and Grissom gradually became a kind of quiet support, offering his own means of understanding when either Nick or Greg needed it.

It made it that much harder for Nick to swallow the look in Grissom's eyes, the palpable disappointment that was in some ways more damaging than his short conversation with White. But Nick couldn't let White carry on like that, not about anyone he knew and especially not about Greg.

He just wished there was a way to take back that one moment, erase those blank stares and White's ominous laughter.

Fear, anger, it didn't really matter why Nick did it since White got what he wanted. He was able to get a rise out of Nick, and more importantly, Nick allowed him to do it, played right into White's hands. He should have known better, anticipated something like this. It was the kind of thing rookies got caught up in, egged on by some guy waiting to trip them up on a stupid mistake, but Nick hadn't been a rookie in a long time.

It was just…

The things White said about Greg, the way White objectified him like Greg was some kind of…_toy_ at his disposal, manic in his ability to treat another person so carelessly. How he enjoyed taunting Nick with the fact he'd almost killed Greg, that self-satisfied grin etched on his face. And coupled with the amount of strain he was already trying to deal with, White's jeering was enough to push Nick over the edge.

He saw exactly what buttons to press, what to say to get under Nick's skin. White wasn't just playing off Nick's reactions. He _knew_. A chance meeting with Nick outside the hospital, the way he said Greg's name, somehow White knew about his relationship with Greg.

It was the daunting look in White's eyes, the changing demeanor following the snap of his fingers when he recognised Nick. It only made Nick uncomfortable at the time but nevertheless sparked an anxiety that was beginning to eat at him.

White was smart. He was shrewd, well aware of it, and Nick didn't need White's records and files to prove it. Spending a few minutes in a room with him was proof enough, and Nick was terrified of what a man with that kind of intelligence and a clear lack of remorse was capable of.

Nick laughed bitterly, ignoring the sharp pain running down his arm as his fist made contact with his locker door. White had something up his sleeve, and all Nick could think about was making sure Greg wasn't anywhere near White when it was revealed.

"Talking to yourself, again?" came a voice from behind Nick, startling him.

"Damn it, Warrick," Nick said gruffly, taking a moment to catch his breath. "Don't sneak up on me like that."

Warrick raised his eyebrows as he opened the locker next to Nick's. "I thought you left already," he said coolly, picking up on Nick's less that amicable mood. "Heard about what happened."

Nick moved to sit on the bench, back towards Warrick as he rested his head in his hands. "I'd be more surprised if you didn't."

"See? This is the kind of crap I was talking about, the same crap that always gets you in trouble." Warrick took his shirt off, folding it and putting it in his locker.

"You didn't hear how that bastard was talking about Greg," Nick said defensively.

"That's bull, Stokes. Try another one." Warrick pulled a new shirt over head, fitting his arms through the sleeves. "That's why Grissom tore your sorry ass a new one."

Nick turned around to face Warrick, hands gripping his knees. "If you were in my place, you would have done the same thing."

"No, I wouldn't have gone in there."

"What – all of a sudden I'm the only one with flaws? Forget how you helped Phelps and how it felt when Grissom took you off that case?"

Warrick looked at Nick sharply. "Don't go there."

"Can't go against what's true."

"Yeah, but this is different because I know better now – we _both_ know better," Warrick said tightly, shaking his head then scoffing. "Keep this up and you're going to take it out on the wrong person."

"You trying to imply something about me, Warrick?"

"No, I'm _telling_ you need to calm down."

"Yeah, you should talk. You're the last person who needs to tell me anything," Nick said roughly, voice steadily rising. "If it wasn't for you…well, at least Greg's still alive, right? The panic attacks are coming back, but at least he's not dead. That's what really matters. So, maybe you were good for something. But poor Holly. She didn't even stand a–"

Nick jumped when Warrick slammed his locker door, the banging metal resulting in a crash that resounded in the room, still loud in the tense silence that followed. It was effective in stopping Nick in his tirade, the useless string of words that were said with the intent to hurt and made him no better than White. But it was the punch stopping just short of hitting his face that caught his attention, the cold look in Warrick's eyes and the slight waver in the other man's voice that made Nick finally take notice of what he was doing.

It was exactly what Nick told himself he wouldn't do and exactly Warrick warned him not to do – pointing fingers and putting the blame where it didn't belong.

"Go home, Nick." Warrick lowered his fist with a resigned sigh.

"Warrick…I didn't," Nick tried to say, but Warrick was already gone.

* * *

_There's a fine line between clichés and jumping the shark, and I think I just about crossed it...a long time ago. But sue me for loving an angry Nick. I seriously spent some time trying to build up to this moment without saying it outright. This entire fic, and everything else I wrote in this universe was for this chapter and this chapter alone._

_Or not really, still, it was fun to write, crappy transitions and all. Tedious as I don't know what, but knowing I'm almost finished with this monstrosity once and for all...such a welcome relief._

_And as always thank you for reading and thank you to **QueenOfTheUniverse** for reviewng._


	11. Part Eleven

_And the Red Queen's "Off with her head"…_

--

Nick was an ass.

He was an incorrigible idiot Greg was stuck with, for some reason couldn't live without, and it was something Greg continued to mull over as he lay on the couch. His neck was resting against the armrest, knees upright and feet planted flat on the cushions as he sank further into the couch, trying to balance the laptop on his stomach.

It was uncomfortable – really, _really_ uncomfortable – but it only brought Greg back to why Nick was an idiot and why he didn't shy away from letting Nick know last night after he told Greg what happened with White in the interrogation room.

Though, Greg did suspect the kava pills he took this morning may have had something to do with it. They were more or less a mild, herbal sedative, prescribed to him by Dr. Sobule before Greg was released from the hospital in Mesquite. He didn't think he needed them at the time, but Nick thought ahead and convinced him to have the prescription filled anyway. That particular conversation took place in an elevator, and Greg could only recall sitting in a wheelchair, nodding off, and sort of hearing Nick's voice through a semi-consciousness daze.

Consequently, Greg was only convinced it was a one-sided conversation when Nick later tried to justify the bottle of pills on the kitchen counter, the ones labeled with Greg's full name in that small, nearly illegible font – something about White, the case, and taking preventive measures.

The memory wasn't exactly forthcoming right now.

Still, it wasn't like the diazepam he used to take when he first began to have the attacks, and Greg wasn't as worried about going through the process of being weaned off it. It took ten months last time, forty long weeks and each day he wondered when he wouldn't be afraid of lapsing into some kind of withdrawal. He was determined not to that dependent on something like that again and refused to rely on pills for the rest of his life.

But while the herbal sedatives weren't anywhere near as strong as the diazepam, considering Greg's poor track record with medication, it didn't take long for a small dosage to kick in. Only a few hours later and Greg was already reeling from the side effects of what was supposed to act as a mild sedative. He felt drowsy, sleepy…somnolent…and any other synonym he couldn't think of right now.

He was trying to stay up, waiting for Nick to get back from the store if only to reinforce the notion that Nick was an ass because it was still his fault Greg was left somewhat sluggish and confined to the couch. It reminded him of some kind of endothermic chemical reaction, possibly an endothermic herbal reaction in this case, that was somehow adiabatic and only began to make sense when Greg lost his train of thought.

Greg hoped he would be lucid enough by Friday.

It was convenient he had today off, tomorrow, too; both of which were more so Grissom's doing and less of Greg trying to stay out of the lab. Greg was still working, but Grissom hesitated to sign him on full time. Although only temporary, it meant Greg worked shorter hours, overtime was defunct in his vocabulary, and reduced him to having Nick and a computer as the only source of reliable information on his off days.

Nick was off until Friday, too. Along with Greg's current inability to go to work, or even to move for that matter, the short suspension created a less than ideal pseudo vacation. However, opportune as it was, Nick made use of it wisely by getting the mail and going shopping in an attempt to find something edible to fill their precariously empty refrigerator.

Tenuously, he wondered if Nick would try to bribe him with food again.

While in the lab, Greg didn't hear about Nick's altercation with White. He left before that, but when Nick came home, Greg was immediately met with a bag of a Chinese take-out that definitely wasn't from the cheap place across the street from the police station they usually visited. Evidently, being suspended without pay for attacking White was enough to merit Nick buying authentic Chinese food that existed well beyond the scope of the usual Pu Pu Platter and Greg's extra carton of shrimp fried rice.

Food of all things, but it was something Greg wouldn't turn down on any given day and was a gesture that was so…

…so _Nick_.

But it didn't make Greg forget that besides being himself, Nick could be irresponsible, too. Angry or not, attacking White was stupid, careless, and exactly why Greg was having trouble ignoring the sudden craving for the leftover food from in the refrigerator. He didn't eat much of it last night, but the shrimp with peas and mushrooms was good, especially good with the braised noodles underneath. If he actually was hungry, Greg would have contemplated making the long trek to the kitchen.

Then again, if putting his feet on the floor seemed daunting, there was reason doubt he'd be able to make it to the kitchen.

Yawning, Greg flung one arm over the side of the couch, blinking away tears when he heard the sound of the front door being unlocked.

"Hey," Nick greeted, juggling his keys and two large bags as he made his way into the house. He pushed the door closed, locking it behind him and then turning around to face Greg. "Did you–"

"No, I didn't waste any food on the couch."

Nick stopped mid-step, adjusting the paper bags in arms and looking at Greg strangely. "I wasn't going to ask you that."

"I didn't say you were."

"Then why did you–"

"Because you're still an ass."

"You still on that?"

Greg was silent for a moment. "…yes."

"Whatever, man," Nick said casually, voice appeasing as he took the bags into the kitchen. "Feel like helping me put the groceries up?" he called out.

"Not really."

"That tired?"

"_Lethargic_," Greg said slowly, drawing the word out as he closed his eyes.

"Did it bother you this much last time?"

"It's not as bad as the diazepam, but the painkillers I was taking then didn't let me do anything but sleep, so…"

"Then why didn't you go to bed?" Nick asked simply, voice much closer and no longer coming from the kitchen.

Greg opened his eyes and looked at Nick incredulously. "That would require moving."

Nick kneeled down, arms over resting on his legs as he peered down Greg. "Your pupils aren't dilated," he said softly, placing the back of his hand against Greg's cheek. "Doesn't look like anything unusual to worry about."

"Aside from a low dose of sedative making me feel so tired?"

"Yeah, when it comes to some people," Nick conceded. "But that's pretty much normal when it comes to you."

Greg scrunched his nose. "Seriously, it feels like I don't have any energy left."

"Apparently enough to talk," Nick muttered, shaking his head as he took Greg's laptop.

"I was actually doing something productive, you know," Greg half-heartedly protested but only watched as Nick closed the computer and set it on the coffee table.

"No, you were staring at a blank screen. Your computer's not even hot, Greg."

"Okay, so it was on standby," Greg agreed reluctantly, "but _maybe_ I was being productive about thinking to do something productive, which is like the new age of proactive productivity."

Nick dismissed the explanation with silence, massaging his forehead with both hands before he chose to speak again. "Yeah…yeah, I think it's time we get you up."

"I'm comfortable."

"No, you're out of it," Nick corrected, standing up and holding out his hands for Greg to take. "Come on, I'm not trusting you to make an important decision like this on your own."

"You really know how to hurt a guy's feelings."

"It's really going to hurt if I let you fall asleep on the couch like that. And then you're going to blame me when you wake up on the floor with a crick in your neck." He paused, looking at Greg thoughtfully. "You can get cranky like that."

"_I_ get cranky?" Greg asked, grunting when Nick pulled him off the couch. He wrapped his arms around Nick, leaning into the other man as Nick moved to support the majority of his weight.

"Oh yeah, I'm definitely taking you to your follow-up appointment tomorrow."

* * *

Nick had been standing outside the interrogation room for an hour now but couldn't bring himself to leave. Not yet. Not when he was this engaged and Grissom and Brass were still able to carry a conversation with White.

Not surprisingly, Nick wasn't allowed back in the room or near White and was more than content to observe through the two-way mirror. It irked him that there was an officer assigned to him while he was here, positioned between Nick and the door to the room as if Nick posed some kind of threat to White, but it was a precaution he more than substantiated the other day. And knowing he had no reason to complain, Nick accepted the terms without comment.

As Brass was more than happy to point out, Nick was fortunate the incident hadn't blown up in his face and even more so because White decided not to press any charges against him. Accordingly, Nick was appreciative enough to swallow his pride at the prospect of being at the mercy of someone like White. Though, he didn't like the feeling it induced: the strange mix between resentment and gratitude.

But Nick thought it better to keep it to himself if it meant he was still on the case.

Brass didn't even want him there, didn't want him anywhere near White, and preferred to have Nick taken off the case period. For him, the short suspension and Nick's probation was nothing more than a slap on the wrist. At one point, Brass went as far as accusing Grissom of favouritism, which may have held true if White wasn't the one who asked for Nick.

After the initial confrontation with Nick, the first hours of interrogating White didn't turn out much more than a waste of tape. At first, White refused to talk, and anything he did mention was taken as nonsense and some kind of attempt at mind games. But then he started to talk about Greg, say things that Grissom and Brass refused to repeat. When he failed to goad them, White's interest in Greg eventually developed into a renewed interest in the person White knew was closest to Greg.

Nick repositioned his arms, crossing them over his chest and uncrossing them again as he transferred the bulk of his weight on left leg when his right leg started to fall asleep. Looking through the glass was the closest White going to get to Nick.

It was bad enough the man had some kind of morbid fascination with Greg and Nick by extension. The last thing they needed to do was answer to White's demands. Neither Brass nor Grissom told White that Nick was standing outside of the room, and so far, it looked like White was cracking down; whatever the reason, Nick wasn't too concerned. He only cared that they were getting closer to putting this case away for good.

"Do you think of yourself as a methodical person?" Grissom asked, adjusting his glasses as he leaned forward. "A federal agent like you…"

"Former agent," White said steadily, showing no signs of surprise at Grissom's knowledge of his background. "But sometimes, I like to think so."

Grissom nodded politely. "Fair enough. What about the other times?"

"We all can't be perfect."

"Like when you left the murder weapon covered your prints at the scene of the crime?" Brass asked. "I'll give you points for slashing the tires, maybe even premeditated murder. Who knows? You won't tell us." Brass bunched his shoulders, relaying his mock confusion. "But let me tell you, everything else didn't seem all that methodical, you know."

"You already arrested me." Stephen shrugged, lifting his wrists and displaying the handcuffs around them. "And apparently you have enough to keep me."

Grissom narrowed his eyes. "Are you admitting to killing them?"

"You haven't decided, yet?"

"We're following the evidence."

"Maybe you're not the only ones," White said cryptically. He sat back in his chair, placing his hands in his lap. "It's only a matter of time before they come for me, but I'll wait. I don't have anything better to do."

"Hey…hey." Brass rapped on the table, loud enough to get White's attention and startle Nick. "Let me make this clear for you, huh. Life without parole is the _only_ thing you'll have to look forward to. And that's _if_ you don't get the death penalty. So, you see, you're not going anywhere."

White didn't flinch, the expression on his face apathetic. "Last time I checked, the federal government didn't have time for empty threats from the state."

Brass frowned. "If they couldn't get you then, what makes you think they'll be able to get you now?"

"Like I said, I'm waiting. And in the meantime, think about what you really want to convict me for."

Grissom looked at White warily. "What about Tyler and Perry?"

"My old partner always said you were quick," White said, appearing somewhat impressed. "But maybe not quick enough."

"Names," Brass demanded.

"My old partner?"

"No." Grissom shook his head. He made a gesture to Brass, using his hand to tell the other man to be quiet. "What do you have against them, Tyler and Perry?"

"Things I could say. Things someone may not want me to say," White answered easily.

"What do you want to say?" Grissom asked.

"That doesn't have to do with Nick or Greg," Brass added, a less than subtle warning in the tone of his voice.

White snorted. "If you're so eager, we can save that conversation for another time," he said shamelessly. "No, what I want say…the questions I want to say for Grissom, since you seem to understand the importance of asking the right ones."

Grissom tilted his head, suppressing a curiosity that Nick didn't have a reason to hide. "I'm listening."

"With your…evidence, do you really believe you can save people?"

"That depends," Grissom replied cautiously. "Save people from what?"

"From a market that will only keep growing, a market that's been prevailing for years, and a market that will always sell."

"In Vegas?"

"In Vegas," White confirmed. "It all comes down to Vegas."

"And in Vegas It all comes down to three things: drugs, sex, and money."

"The only truths self-evident in the new world."

"Self-evident to whom?"

"The people who don't care."

"And these people, what is it they don't care about?"

"Did you know," White began, "you could buy a little girl in Nanjing for a couple hundred Yuan and sell here her in the States for more than a thousand dollars," he asked earnestly. It was the first time White admitted to knowing about human trafficking. It didn't directly confirm the possibility of White's involvement with trafficking, but it didn't make White's obvious excitement was any less unsettling or less difficult for Nick to take.

"That in old rural areas like Yulin," White continued, "if a little girl can't be sold…I think we can all agree there isn't really an alternative to look forward to. But the money, the money people are willing to pay—"

"And that's supposed to justify peddling them like that, the money?"

A flash of disappointment crossed White's face. "I like to think I'm not all that twisted."

"And if you are?"

"Well, if I am, then the ignorant people are, too. We're all mad."

"But there's a difference between being ignorant of a crime and committing one."

"Indifference?"

"No," Grissom said flatly. "Committing the crime."

White nodded in understanding, though of what Nick wasn't sure. "So, I guess I'll ask you again. Do you think really believe you can save people?"

Grissom looked at White in confusion, somewhat frustrated as he reiterated his initial response to the question. "Again, what am I saving them from?"

"No." Brass shook his head, gaze narrowing his eyes at White. "No, I think this time he wants to know _who_."

* * *

When they managed to track the text he received, Greg expected it to lead back to Davis. He had little doubt in his mind that she was the one who sent it and wasn't disappointed when they were able to find her because of it.

They traced the number from the original sender and were able to subpoena the records from the phone company. The number belonged to a prepaid phone that was bought with cash, but the phone company had an address in Lake Tonopah Apartments on file that was in fact registered to Alice Davis.

Greg would have gone, in some ways felt he needed to go in order to gain some kind closure, but he still wasn't cleared for the field. Instead, he slid into his old position as a lab tech, filling any gaps and handling paperwork on the side while Sara and Catherine left with Sofia to find Davis. He wasn't too bothered by it, though. Despite officially being a CSI, he was still trying to make his transition from the lab and often found himself going back and forth between responsibilities when asked.

If Sara and Catherine did find Davis, they would bring her in for questioning, and Greg could a wait a few more hours.

Only a few hours later, David bringing in Davis' dead body wasn't necessarily the return Greg anticipated.

With Catherine and Sara processing the scene at Davis' apartment, Warrick called Greg into the morgue, where Greg was able to identify the person on the exam table as Alice Davis – or at least he was when he saw her head on the table next to it.

The body was the first thing Greg saw when he walked into the morgue, and Greg had to force himself to swallow the bile gathering at the back of his throat when he first saw the head. It wasn't the first headless victim he'd seen, and normally he could stomach something like this. He survived his first autopsy, stopped blanching somewhere after the fifth one, and eventually even the sight of Doc Robbins cutting into bone became almost routine.

Maybe it was because Greg had some kind of connection with Davis, albeit hazardous and somewhat misleading, but whatever the cause, Greg couldn't bring himself to look at her misshapen face. He couldn't meet the gaze of those blank eyes, and redirected his focus to her body and the small, patch of scarred flesh on her forearm.

Robbins sighed, rubbing the back of his hand on his forehead. "Luckily for this young woman here," he said tiredly, shuffling in between the two tables. "Decapitation may not have been the cause of death."

"May have?" Warrick asked. "Catherine said she and Sara found Davis in a tub that was halfway filled with blood and whatever didn't make in there was on the walls."

"Yes, I couldn't help but notice the lack of blood to drain during the autopsy."

Warrick ignored the offbeat remark. "There's no way a person could spew that much blood after their heart stops."

"Didn't say there was, but there's also evidence of a hyperextension injury or in laymen's terms, the hangman's fracture. It's when the neck is so far bent back it separates from the spine, which is more than likely caused by extreme impact to the face."

Robbins pointed to the back of Davis' neck, where pieces of bone could be seen protruding from the skin. "Originally, I attributed it to what was used to cut off her head. Whoever did the hacking wasn't exactly precise, and it resulted in the jagged edges around the sections of detached skin alongside multiple lacerations on the bone."

"So, not exactly dead, but she was in the process of dying," Greg tried to clarify.

"Yes. If she was decapitated only a few minutes after necrosis set in, and her heart is still circulating blood, there's no reason why she wouldn't bleed."

Warrick blinked. "Small window of opportunity."

"Very," Robbins agreed. "Now, I can't say for sure if the neck and spinal cord injuries were what got to her first. The interval from spinal cord injury to death can be fickle, and there's no way of knowing for sure when someone dies because of it. Unless we had someone there at the time, it's essentially a question of the chicken or the egg. Either way, it probably wasn't an instantaneous death, though."

"And the broken nose was…"

"Well, judging by the prominent swelling of her nose and discolouration surrounding it, the fracture occurred before she died. And it's likely the acute impact could account for the hyperextension."

"Still, I wonder why someone bruised her face but not the rest of her body...except for her arm." Greg looked at Robbins, catching sight of Davis' head from his peripheral vision. "Earlier, you said some of the bruises were post-mortem, right?"

Robbins nodded.

"What about this?" Greg said, gesturing to Davis' forearm and the darkened area surrounding the section of skin he noticed earlier. "So, she was alive when…"

"Right. Of course, it's not fully healed, but the blood already started to clot in that area. I'd say it looks about two inches thick, more or less. You can still see the lingering fat that wasn't taken along with the skin that was removed."

Greg cringed, trying not to imagine what Davis must have felt when it happened.

"And speaking of missing skin," Robbins said, nodding to the rolling cart behind Warrick. "Hand that small jar in there to Greg, would you."

"Sure." Warrick reached for the jar and gave it to Greg.

"Saved that for you," Robbins explained. "The not so missing sample."

Greg looked up from the jar. "Is this her…"

"I found it in stuffed down the back of her throat, actually."

"I need to…I need to see this stretched out, to make sure of something."

"Make sure of what?" Warrick asked.

"Call it a hunch. Maybe something important," Greg said quickly. "Remember the rabbit tattoo Davis had that I was talking about? That's what this was…or is," he corrected, waving the jar in front of Warrick. "Gives whole new meaning to taking the red pill down the hole," he murmured.

"The red pill?"

Greg shook his head. "Never mind the bad pun. Grissom told me he saw a tattoo on White's arm," he said excitedly. "How much are you willing to bet it's a rabbit?"

"You're saying White killed Davis?"

"We can't put it past him, can we?"

"White has a solid alibi; he's been in lock up for the past four days."

"An alibi never stopped people before," Greg countered, turning to Robbins. "He could have killed Davis before we picked him if she's been dead for four days. That's plausible, right?"

"And I'll stress this again: I said it was _possible_. Don't quote me on anything longer than 48 hours, though. She's well past the stage of rigor, and the level of decomposition may suggest she's been dead at least two days, _possibly_ three to five.

Greg stared at Robbins blankly before turning back to Warrick. "Doc agrees with me."

"But when we took White in, there was no sign of blood on him or any marks on his hands to match the bruising on Davis' face."

"What about the .45 pistol Sara said she found at the scene? Wouldn't that be enough to put him there?"

"Okay, yeah, I ran it, and it's registered to White, but a gun that didn't kill Davis isn't going to hold up. Especially since we don't even have any prints on it, much less his."

Greg paused, taking Warrick's words into consideration. "You're making it sound like someone's trying to frame White."

"Believe you me, I'm not trying to. "Warrick snorted. "But it's not impossible. And if someone is, they're going through heck of a lot of trouble to throw us off."

"I guess, but the way I see it, there's a small window of opportunity between when the text was sent and when White was arrested. I still say it's likely he killed her before we found him. I mean, who else do we have?"

"The same person who sent the text?"

"Davis? She's the one gave me the card that took us to White the first time."

"Do we have proof she sent it? For all we know, it could have been someone else."

"Back to the framing angle, then?"

"Maybe, but I wouldn't rule it out so fast," Warrick said thoughtfully. "But there's something else, too."

"Okay, I'll bite. If not framing, what else are you thinking of?"

"Well, who's to say White was ever working alone in the first place?"

* * *

Nick reached for the alarm clock on the night stand. Searching blindly, he knocked a set of keys on the floor, his hand flailing around before he finally hit the snooze button.

He rubbed his eyes, groaning as he waited for them to adjust to the light coming through the blinds. It felt like he'd been in bed all day, though when he looked at the clock, it wasn't even noon. Work wasn't for a couple more hours, but he didn't like to sleep in and needed to take a shower, anyway.

Yawning, he moved to check his phone for any missed calls – or he was going to until he realised Greg was sprawled on top of him and apparently knocked out. Nick sighed, adjusting the comforter over Greg. Taking the sedative was still making Greg drowsy, but after finally going to sleep six o'clock in the morning, Nick couldn't say he expected otherwise.

He spent last night staying up with Greg, a long night where the conversation lasted until they both fell asleep. They actually…talked. Really talked like they hadn't talked in a long time, and it was something Nick didn't realise they needed until now.

From Greg's nightmares and Nick's misplaced hero-complex to practicing breathing exercises for Greg's panic attacks and debating whether or not water had a flavour. About everything or nothing at all, it didn't matter. Just being able slow things down and take a step back to let it all out. It was a form of release Nick enjoyed but rarely allowed himself to have.

Maybe he'd let himself stay in bed for a little while longer, take the time to actually relax.

Readjusting the pillow behind him, Nick moved to sit up. He leaned against the headboard, grunting as he repositioned Greg on top of him. He smiled when he felt Greg shifting, the other man tightening his grip on Nick's shirt.

"I know you're not sleeping," he said shrewdly, running his hand through the back of Greg's hair. It curled around his fingers, the strands soft and slightly damp from Greg taking a shower last night.

Greg raised his head from Nick's chest, licking his lips and squinting at the other man. "You know," he said, voice somewhat groggy. "It'd be a lot easier to sleep if my makeshift pillow wasn't playing with my hair.

"Well, your makeshift pillow needs to move," Nick replied, still running his fingers through Greg's hair.

"No he doesn't." Greg peered at the clock. "It's not even twelve yet, and my pillow doesn't have to go to work until four."

"You can go always back to sleep, you know?" Nick said teasingly. "Just because I'm up, doesn't mean you have to be."

"Doesn't mean you have to get out of bed, either," Greg countered, letting go of Nick's shirt. Pulling the comforter over his head, he positioned himself above Nick, peering down at the other man's face. "I know I have morning breath, but…" he began softly, closing his eyes and pressing his lips against Nick's.

It was a slow kiss, mellow and easy to fall into, something Nick did his best to prolong. Sighing, he wrapped his arms around Greg, holding him closer and reluctant to let go even when Greg pulled away.

"Was that enough to change your mind?"

"You just trying to distract me," Nick whispered.

"That depends." Greg looked at Nick coyly. "Is it working?"

Nick bit his lip, trying not to laugh at the expression on Greg's face. "I still need to move."

Greg let his body sag on top of Nick, groaning as he pressed his forehead against Nick's. "You really know how to kill the mood."

"You think so, huh?" Nick said challengingly, moving his hands underneath Greg's shirt.

Greg began to twitch, the movement involuntarily as the pressure from Nick's fingers steadily increased. "No, I take it back," he said quickly, unable to contain the oncoming laughter when Nick pushed him onto the bed. "I take it…I take it–"

"Still think I'm ruining it?" Nick asked with a grin, his own laughter joining Greg's as the other man squirmed beneath him. Relentlessly, his hands travelled up and down Greg's sides, Nick anticipating the sporadic movement as his fingers continued to roam over Greg's body.

"No, I…Nick, stop," Greg tried to say, the plea an incoherent cry and falling upon seemingly deaf ears. He arched his back, contorting his body in an attempt to get away from Nick. "No, stop it. Please, just–"

"Had enough?" Nick asked, still grinning despite the look he was receiving from Greg.

Trying to catch his breath, Greg swallowed when Nick finally pulled back. "Not funny," he said after a moment, swallowing again as he continued to stare at Nick. He was panting heavily, face flushed and lips parted. "You really don't want me to go back to sleep, do you?"

"That depends," Nick said, intentionally repeating Greg's words and using them against him. "Are you awake now?"

"No thanks to you." Greg closed his eyes, pressing the side of his face into the sheets. "What time is it?" he asked when the alarm began to go off, the soft beeping echoing in the room.

"Ten after twelve."

"Are you going to get that or just stare at me?"

"Maybe," Nick said distractedly. "Wait a minute, stare at you? How do you know I'm staring at you?"

"I can feel you staring at me." Greg peered at Nick with one eye, opening the other when Nick didn't look away. "See, you _are_ staring at me."

Nick found himself caught between words, amusement in his eyes. "You're something else, you know that," he said warmly.

"Yes, I do know."

Nick snorted. "Modest, too."

Greg reached for Nick's shirt, pulling the other man on top of him. "If you don't get the alarm, I'm going to kick you off the bed."

"No, you won't," Nick said surely, smiling into Greg's neck.

"One of these days I really will, you know."

"Is that a threat?"

"More like an indefinite guarantee."

"As long as you let me back in…I can live with that."

* * *

_"–lab technician, as well as the officers killed in Mesquite last Tuesday night during the investigation. The police have already taken White into custody, but concerning White's trial, authorities withheld from making any further comment."_

He was aware of exaggerating the sound, maybe just a little, but Greg couldn't stop the pitiful moan that even chewing on his pen didn't phase. Sara was sitting across from him but didn't say anything about noise, too engrossed in going through her stack of White's files and making notes on the margins.

Catherine sat beside Sara, on the other side of the table and furthest away from the TV. She licked the pad of her thumb, taking a sheet from her own stack of White's files and placing it into a small pile of papers that pertained to the case.

They divvied up the large folder Tyler and Perry gave them and still hadn't finished reading over everything. So far, they were able to link White to more than a few undercover gigs that ultimately undermined a couple major drug peddling circles. But he spent the majority of his career raising awareness and advocating against human trafficking in Vegas. Before his retirement, in six years alone, White participated in more than a dozen raids that broke a number of child prostitution rings.

In short, White was a good agent, the epitome of a good agent. He had the means to put a stop to something he not only knew was wrong but something he was clearly passionate about, and yet…after fifteen years none of it seemed to matter anymore. White's accomplishments, the difference he made in other people's lives, it meant nothing.

But it was why they were going through the files, trying to make sense of a case that had long ago spiraled out of control.

Greg sighed at the seemingly increasingly large pile of papers in front of him. It was grunt work but important work, and his only complaint was being subjected to the news while doing. The TV was on Channel 19, like it usually was. Strangely enough, it was the only channel they could get reception for.

He looked up the second the TV cut to a scene of Undersheriff McKeen walking down the steps of the courthouse, trying to evade a bombardment of press and an impromptu interview. Sporadic, bright flashes lit the screen and microphones were being shoved in front of McKeen as he manoeuvred through the crowd of people.

_"–with the FBI and speculation for another gruesome murder. Police found her body earlier this afternoon at her home in Lake Tonopah Apartments, near West Lake Mead Boulevard. No more–"_

Greg turned the TV off. "Somehow we managed to keep this case under wraps for more than a month, and then one day it all starts to unravel." He paused looking between Catherine and Sara as he put the remote on the table. "You guys weren't watching that, right?"

Catherine raised her eyebrows. "Apparently, not anymore," she said wryly.

"Were you really?" he asked, taking the pen out of his mouth.

"No, Greg," Catherine assured.

"Uh-huh," Sara agreed absently, head down as she scribbled something on a legal pad. She stopped, shaking the pen before she tried writing again. "Anybody have another pen I can borrow? I'm all out of ink."

"Here, you can have mine," Greg said quickly, offering his pen to Sara. "I've been doing this for five hours straight, and I need a break anyway."

Sara regarded the pen with mild disgust, retracting her hand before looking at Greg incredulously. "Never mind." She turned to Catherine. "Please tell me you have an extra so I don't have to leave the room?"

Catherine snorted, reaching into a pocket inside of her jacket. "Way ahead of you."

"Thanks." Sara nodded at the other woman, ignoring Greg's protest.

"Sara, I offered you a pen."

"And it's covered with your bite marks.

Greg frowned at Sara and reexamined his pen. "Great," he said sullenly, leaning against his chair. "The inevitable leaking process has begun, and Sara's afraid of getting cooties."

She pointed her pen at Greg. "Who knows where your mouth's been?"

Failing to stifle her laughter, Catherine looked at Greg apologetically. "Don't let it get to you, Greg."

"Like I ever let her get to me."

"No," Sara said, her voices serious. "What you heard on the news."

"Oh…that." Nervously, Greg tapped his fingers on the table. "Well, I guess it had to come out sooner or later. I was just hoping later; this kind of stuff turns ugly, fast."

The media had a habit of portraying the police department as inept. Despite all of the crimes they solved, all of the people they put away, the good couldn't outweigh the bad and the public was more interested in being entertained by the latest drama.

For now, Greg was the "lab technician" who was nearly strangled to death, which was fine as long as the media didn't look further into White, Davis, or the FBI and make the story into some big government conspiracy.

"Nobody would," Catherine agreed sympathetically. "But the longer we hold out, the more they'll want to know and the deeper somebody's going to dig for it."

"Worst case scenario?" Greg asked.

"We get bad publicity."

Sara looked at Catherine. "Best case scenario?"

"We get bad publicity."

"So, either way…we're screwed."

"There's always a talker," Greg said dully.

"Just be glad you're not the one who has to deal with office politics." Catherine began to stand, pushing her hair away from her face and tucking it behind her ear. "I'm going to find Brass and Ecklie. We need to figure out who this talker is and how much they know before anything else gets out."

"We'll be here."

"I thought you were taking a break," she said as she passed the table.

Greg nodded. "In here. Bring something back for us?"

Catherine shook her head. "I'll leave you two alone."

When she left the room, Greg leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as Sara did the same.

"So," Greg began, picking up from the conversation they had with Archie on Tuesday. "You still think the FBI is behind this?" He and Sara were the only one who seemed to think the FBI was more involved with White than they initially let on.

"Maybe not in general, but it has to be an inside job. Think about it. We've never had a problem with them before. Now, we're not getting evidence, nobody's telling us what's going or what happened ten years ago, we can't get a hold of Tyler or Perry, and then suddenly everything's pointing to White? Too many inconsistencies, I don't buy it."

"That's what Warrick said yesterday."

"Really?"

"Not in so many words, but yeah. I thought it made more sense that he would kill Davis because she pointed us in his direction, but Warrick brought up some good points that got me thinking. I mean, I'm not saying White's completely innocent. I just don't know what to believe."

"Join the club." Sara scoffed. "I'm not sure Catherine and Grissom even know what's going on."

"Well, not knowing where the Harrisons are, Davis being dead, and still no Tyler or Perry? We don't have a lot of options left.

"No," Sara agreed. "We don't."

"But we do have somebody still willing to–"

"Greg Sanders?"

Turning around, Greg was surprised to see Agent Tyler standing in the doorway. "Yes?" he said cautiously.

"Mind if we have a little talk?"

* * *

_Not my best, I know. I've been working on this and the last chapter simultaneously, and I'm so ready to scrap this thing. It's long, too contrived, and makes me want to pull my hair out. All I can do is cross my fingers and hope everything comes together in the end...like it's supposed to._

_Seriously, there's leeway, leeway, and then there's what I did._

_This whole chapter was a mess, but I stand by the first part. Sick Greg is a running gag for me (one of them), so I used it to do something lighter because the melodrama is painful. Basically, I wanted to make Greg sound...sulky or something(?) without giving into writing a cutesy scene that turned out way too domestic and just plain corny in general. And of course, I wrote one anyway._

_That really sappy part in the middle, no, I couldn't even begin to explain where it came from. I wanted to use that part as a __resolution to the strain in Nick and Greg's relationship and somehow it became a__ complete 180 from the concept I had. Again, I don't know._

_But yeah, thank you for reading and thank you to **eustilly** and **QueenOfTheUniverse **for reviewing._


	12. Part Twelve

_Remember what the dormouse said…_

--

Nick followed Warrick through the resident complex, heading up the stairs to the third floor, where Davis' body was found. It was beginning to look less likely that White was behind Davis's death. Grissom sent Sara and Catherine to revisit White's hotel room at the Artisan, assigning Nick and Warrick back to Davis' apartment.

Despite the one-sided exchange that took place, Nick's outburst in the locker room wasn't exactly detrimental to his friendship with Warrick. They'd gone through worse before, had arguments that came close to blows. However, Nick did apologise the day after he was suspended, called Warrick after he slept off most of his frustration. Warrick treated it lightly and said they both needed time to cool off. It was the way they dealt with things, who they were, and would have been the same if the roles had been reversed.

Nick was sorry, Warrick accepted, and they could get on with their lives. Stress was a hazard of the job that no one was immune from and things became that much harder being close to the people he worked with. It didn't stop Nick from feeling contrite, though. He didn't mean what he said, the things about Holly Gribbs, about what happened to Warrick's old mentor. And while Warrick was inadvertently responsible for both, neither was comparable to Greg nearly getting killed.

But for a moment, it was easier to be selfish, easier for Nick to forget that he wasn't the only one affected. Because Nick didn't want to remember, take in the fact that even as held White against the wall, as he struggled to quiet the taunts being whispered in ear, he still didn't have the power make it better.

It wasn't about what happened to Greg, not entirely. Greg didn't need Nick to jump in the save the day. Greg didn't need Nick to fight his battles, but the encounter with White made Nick feel like he was losing his own.

"You coming in?" Warrick asked from inside Davis' apartment. He was holding the crime scene tape over his head.

"Yeah, give me a second." Nick flexed his right hand, adjusting the sleeve of his glove and pulling it over his wrist. He ducked under the yellow tape, wrinkling his nose at the smell of blood assaulting his nostrils. It was old blood, pungent, musty, and Nick could almost taste it in his mouth.

"You know I'm going to make you grovel for that stunt you pulled in the locker room," Warrick said without remorse. "And since you're still on probation…"

"Yeah, yeah, I got the bathroom," Nick replied, eyes falling to the bathroom and then gauging the rest of the apartment.

It was small, even for a studio apartment and looked somewhere around the size of a motel room. In one corner, there was what Nick assumed was supposed to pass as a bed: a mound of quilted blankets folded haphazardly with a pillow lying unceremoniously on top. There was a small dresser across from the blankets on the other side of the room, but other than that, the place was sparse.

The only area that looked lived in was the kitchenette by the door, where some kind of skirmish probably took place. A white mini-fridge was tipped over, the doors open and a puddle of water on the floor. No other appliances, but there was evidence of blood in the sink as well as on the door of one of the cabinets above, making it likely the killer tried to clean up.

"I know a second set of eyes never hurts, but what are we looking for?" Nick asked.

"Something sharp with jagged teeth would be helpful," Warrick answered, looking over at Nick. "None of the knives we tested had traces of blood on them and they weren't serrated. Find the murder weapon, pull a print…"

"Find our killer and…"

"But start here, first," Warrick said. "You got your look. Run it for me."

"All right, landlord had to open the door for Sara and Catherine. Since Davis' body was locked in the apartment, there's a good chance our perp took her keys with him. No sign of breaking and entering." He pointed to the lock near the top of the door. "The bolt on the door's still attached. The killer must have been someone Davis at least recognised or trusted."

"Well, there's not much here," Warrick remarked, opening a door that revealed a small closet. "Handful of clothes on a rack, not a lot of personal belongings." He kneeled on the floor, picking up a shirt that fell on off a hanger and showing it to Nick. "Here's her police uniform…with her name on the front pocket. I'm thinking this place was temporary and she set it up so she could leave anytime she wanted."

"Makes sense," Nick agreed. "Davis had no lease and the landlord said she paid rent ahead of time on a month to month basis."

"Paranoid or on the run, maybe…could lead to a possible motive behind her death."

Nick nodded as he walked toward the bathroom, the smell of blood becoming more prominent. "Would explain if the killer was someone who turned against her or was looking for her. The killer comes, and Davis gets caught by surprise, puts up a fight in the kitchen area. Eventually, the killer punches Davis a couple of times, maybe knocks her unconscious. Drags her into the bathroom and then puts her in the tub, where he…"

Nick paused when he reached the bathroom. When Catherine and Sara said the scene was a bloodbath, an actual bath of blood wasn't what immediately came to mind.

"That bad?" Warrick called out.

"Bad enough that Marty Gleason would have had a field day cleaning up," Nick replied. "Come here for a second, would you?"

Like the rest of the apartment, the bathroom was small. Nick barely found room to stand between the fixtures. It wasn't a gory as he originally thought it would be. The blood was mostly in the tub, and there significant splatter on the walls, but he didn't remember hearing anything about a struggle in the bathroom.

There were pieces of ceramic all over the floor, probably what was left of the missing lid from the toilet tank. It didn't look like it was dropped accidently, though. There were a few dents on the wall behind the toilet, suggesting the lid may have been thrown against the wall.

"Whoa." Warrick stood outside of the door. "What happened here? Catherine didn't say anything broken fixtures."

"I'm thinking our killer came back. And I think I know why he was looking for Davis in the first place." Narrowing his eyes, Nick kneeled by the toilet. "You see these dents on the wall, right under there." Nick pointed to a small patch a few inches from the baseboard molding. It was almost unnoticeable, only a few shades lighter than the white on the rest of the wall.

"Looks like someone painted over a piece of drywall," Warrick said.

"Yeah," Nick agreed absently, running a finger over the wall. "Not the same texture as the rest of the paint and the brush strokes are uneven. Looks pretty fresh, too. I think Davis hid something in here, something the killer wanted," he said, taking the flashlight out of his vest pocket, putting the butt of it against the patch on the wall.

"Important enough to smash through the wall?" Warrick asked, watching as Nick proceeded to make a hole through the wall.

"If it was already there." Nick shined his flashlight inside of the wall, blinking away debris as he looked into the hole. "Yep, definitely see something, something small and…shiny?"

"Could be the light. Can you reach it?"

Nick turned to Warrick, biting his lip in concentration and he reached into the wall. He felt something hard, some kind of metal, and was surprised at what he pulled out.

He raised his eyebrows, showing Warrick what he found. "It's a USB drive."

* * *

Being with the crime lab didn't garner any special treatment, no exceptions, and that was fine. He didn't expect anything less, but Greg wished he'd known beforehand how long it would take to fill out various applications and release forms, go through safety and background checks, actually be signed off and approved, and left to wait in the long line of people who also happened to arrive at the Detention Center eight o'clock in the morning.

Five hours later, Greg was told he'd have to leave his possessions at the front desk. His keys, phone, and pager were put in a small security box as per procedure when visiting detainees. They let him keep the ring on his finger, but with the exception of his clothes, he was stripped bare of anything connecting him to the outside world.

"Have a seat," the guard said shortly, gesturing towards a row of about fifteen indistinct cubicles spanning the conference room and dividing the room in half.

"Thanks." Nodding in appreciation, Greg stepped into the medium-sized room. Save for a woman sitting in the cubicle at the end of the row, it was empty, and Greg realised the first three rooms he and the guard passed were probably crowded.

He took a seat in the first cubicle he saw, the third one down on the row but still close to the entrance, where the guard now stood. He tried to get comfortable in the chair, wishing he had something to keep his hands busy and his mind off the prospect of a piece of tempered glass being the only thing separating him and Steven White.

Grissom told Greg that he shouldn't feel obligated to talk to White, and in between the lines Grissom didn't think it was something Greg was emotionally prepared for it. Of course, it was a moot point with Nick, a cyclical and obstinate argument Greg didn't plan on revisiting. Catherine thought it was a waste of time and saw White as an egomaniac looking for a power trip. But ultimately, Warrick and Sara were the only ones remotely supportive in Greg's decision, both suggesting Greg do whatever he felt was right.

He could only hope it paid off in the end.

His curiosity could be an asset or a limitation, and for the time being Greg decided to call it an opportunity to come to terms with his irrational fear of one man.

He was looking for answers. They all were. Two months of investigation and they had come no closer to solving the initial case. Progress was more questions that hindered rather than helped and answers they couldn't find weaved into a complexity of lies and omissions that took them even further away from the little girl Greg found in the Harrisons' house. And if White was a chance to find those answers, if he was willing to talk, why not sit down with him?

There was a shrill buzz as the door opened on the other side of the room, and Greg looked to see a tall man in an orange jumpsuit being ushered to the corresponding cubicle parallel from him. He had short, dark hair that was beginning to grey, a face that looked gaunt rather than well-defined, and a head that seemed small compared to the rest of his body. Greg presumed him to be White, but the man in front of him, casually sitting down before him, didn't seem as imposing as the distorted image in Greg's memory.

Greg picked up the phone propped on the wall of the cubicle, placing it against his ear as White did the same.

"Where's Nick?" White asked calmly, the first thing out of his mouth and not the way Greg wanted to start the conversation.

Greg pursed his lips. He wasn't sure how much White knew about his relationship with Nick, if he even knew like Nick claimed, but Greg didn't want to delve into it. "I heard you wanted to talk to me. Not Nick."

"Really, I'm flattered." White smiled crookedly, one corner of his mouth rising higher than the other. "I never thought you'd actually come."

Silently, Greg agreed and was beginning to second-guess his decision. "Look, I can leave if you don't–"

"No, no stay," White coaxed gently, the smile gone. "Haven't had any visitors lately, and I do want to talk to you, get to know a little more about you. Whatever you're comfortable with."

Greg doubted his earlier self-assurance. Maybe Grissom was right, and he wasn't emotionally prepared for this. First White tried to kill him, and now he wanted to have a heartfelt conversation. "You want to know about me?"

"Is that so hard to believe?"

It was, and Greg was going to relay to White exactly why it was so hard to believe but kept any deprecating remarks to himself. "And in exchange," he said warily, "you'll talk about your involvement in human and drug trafficking rings after you left the FBI? What you had to do with the Harrisons, their daughter…"

"If you want me to, I will. Trafficking's a market like any other, and I was involved in it for a long time, before I even thought about retiring from the FBI. I told your Detective Brass I'd speak to you with no reservations. Ask what you need and squeeze what you can into the time we have."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that. Anything you want to know that I can give," White confirmed. "Though, I can't answer much about the Harrisons. I didn't know them personally. The last I heard, they were taken into protective custody, but I'd look into that if I were you. I think Jessica Tyler would know."

"Agent Tyler, she's the who took them into protective custody."

White nodded. "Look into it."

"I'll keep that in mind, then," Greg said. "What about Harrisons' daughter? We found her dead in their house."

"I never saw her. Understand I was mostly a figurehead in the rings I moved in. Rarely did I do the brunt of the work, just oversaw it."

"No name?"

"Not that I knew of, and I'm sorry," White said. "One of the burdens of a business I should have retired from sooner."

Taken back by the look on White's face, Greg forced a cough, uncomfortable with the sudden change in atmosphere. "If that's the case, if you knew what you were doing was wrong, why didn't you turn yourself in?"

"It's funny…what age does to you, how the past always has this way of catching up to you. But I'm old, and I can only run for so long," White said. "You're still young. What kind of secrets do you think you're hiding, Greg?"

"I'm not hiding anything you need to know," Greg replied patiently, to some extent defensively. He still didn't understand why White was so keen to talk to him, and so far, the conversation seemed patronizing at best.

"Sure you are." Leaning forward, White moved closer to the transparent screen that separated them, but Greg refused to allow himself to back away. "See, the only difference between people, me and you…" He directed a thumb at himself and then Greg. "Between _us_, is that I'm a man with little to lose and little to gain."

Greg glanced at the guard standing behind White and near the entrance on the other side of the room.

"Whereas you," White continued. "Well, your secrets...you don't need to tell."

"Then why even talk to me?"

"Because it's more fun when those secrets are the ones I already know. Puts you at a disadvantage, doesn't it?" There was a flash of something in White's eyes, expectant, almost knowing, and Greg couldn't trust himself to speak.

White was toying with him, trying to taunt him. Whatever White implied he knew, it wasn't something Greg wanted to discuss. Grissom said White liked to play with words, warp things, and initiate a kind of game Greg would have to play in order to get any answers.

"But those things specifically about you," White said in a hushed tone into the receiver. "All I had to do was ask Alice, and she showed me."

"Alice Davis?" Greg asked, wondering if maybe she wasn't such a victim after all.

"I haven't spoken to her in fifteen years," White said wistfully, voice then indulging a false sense of awe. "So can you imagine my surprise when I read in the paper she was dead, killed even, and then saw her put on TV in a glass coffin for the entire world to see?"

Greg bit his lip at the smile White threw his way, White's gaze deliberate and alarming.

"No, but you can relate, can't you," White urged. "And now you know your secrets aren't buried as deep as you once thought."

"That has nothing to do with me," Greg said evenly. Mentioning the coffin wasn't a fluke, but if White was trying to imply something about Greg's relationship with Nick, it was safer to leave White speculating.

"Her death, that didn't have much to do with either of us; I wouldn't stoop so low that I'd kill my own family, and you're far from the type of person to kill. No, but she did follow you, watch you, reach out to you in her own sad little way."

"For someone who's family, you don't seem that concerned about her."

"Different ideas of family, maybe," White said, not dissuaded by Greg's comment. "Ironically, I consider Stephen White my real name and Baitu a part of it. People don't always have the most creative aliases, but common names have their purposes." White held up one finger. "Now, remember Li Davis when it comes up."

Greg already did, when Tyler mentioned it a few days ago. She and Perry claimed the FBI was looking for White because he was supposed to lead them to Li Davis, who was allegedly part of one the largest international smuggling rings in the word.

"His real name," White said, "is Ming Han. My brother, Alice's father, he's the reason it was important for me to keep an eye on her. She liked you."

Greg groaned, puffing his cheeks in frustration and mentally counting to ten. "No, go back to the reason. Why did you have to watch out for Davis?"

"You have to pick your questions carefully because you don't have much time left."

"You keep bringing up time. I don't under–"

"Of course you don't understand. No one does until after the fact. Alice didn't, either. There were certain things she wanted to say but couldn't, and she still tried through you. That's how I know she liked you, something about you."

"Liked me enough to lead me to you?" Greg said.

"Oh no," White said, shaking his head. "I may not have spoken to my niece in fifteen years, but like I said, I watched her like she watched you, followed her like she followed you. She didn't lead me to you," he whispered. "I _found_ you. And much like those unfortunate gaps in your memory, I have two months of secrets even you don't know."

Greg kept a straight face, but he couldn't stop from flinching.

"But I'm not who you should be worried about it," White said, sitting back. "I can't do anything to you. Not anymore," he added casually.

"Who…" Greg paused, taking a moment to concentrate on breathing. "Who should I be worried about, then?"

"It's a rhetorical question, but do you know how many people I've killed? Too many, and yet, I hesitated to kill you. I could have, just like the others I killed with my bare hands, but I didn't. Maybe what they say about compassion and old age say is true. Don't get wrong, though. You should keep your initial impression of me. I want to get under your skin and scare you because it's what I do. I'm not a nice person, just not the worst out there."

White sighed. "Confession is penance for the soul, maybe that's what Alice saw in you, why she liked you. Something about you screams innocuous, daring me to believe I have a chance at forgiveness, which can be helpful if you're in the field of helping people. Will you help me, Greg?"

Greg didn't answer, closing his eyes when he heard White laughing through the phone.

"You ever smoked before?" White asked.

"No," Greg said softly as he opened his eyes.

"God, what I wouldn't kill for a pack right now," White said, smiling as if he expected Greg to smile, too, but if it was supposed to be a joke, Greg didn't find it funny. "When Alice was younger, she used to steal my cigarettes and share them with her little sister, Lori. Alice was five years older, but sometimes I had trouble telling them apart.

"White cocked his head to the side. "Really, you've never tried smoking?"

"No. I haven't tried smoking."

"Conrad Ecklie, the CSI who found Lori's body. He used to smoke but quit because his wife wanted him to. At least Alice didn't spend her last days like her sister."

"Is that how you treat family?" Greg asked, working out that alongside her sister, Davis maybe have also been a victim of child trafficking. "That's the business you couldn't leave?"

"I told you, I don't kill family. I didn't kill Lori." White turned his head to the side, and Greg couldn't follow his gaze from the other side of the cubicle. "Ask Alice. She'll show you."

"What do you mean she'll show me? Davis is–"

"She can help you where Tyler and Perry can't."

"Wait a–"

"Mr. Sanders?"

Startled by the voice behind him, Greg turned around to see the guard who escorted him to the conference room. The guard looked at Greg expectantly. "Yes?"

"Time's up."

"But…" Pressing the phone closer to his ear, Greg turned back around to see White was already gone.

"Mr. Sanders," the guard said again. "You have two people waiting for you in the hallway."

Returning the phone to the wall, Greg looked at the guard in confusion. "Two visitors?" He stood, not waiting for the guard to clarify as he moved to leave the room.

He opened the door, accidently bumping into someone as soon as he stepped out. He grunted, the sound of his shoes squeaking on the floor loud in the hallway.

"Sorry, I didn't…" He paused, looking up to see who he bumped into. "Agent Perry and Agent Tyler…"

"Greg Sanders," Tyler said shortly, recovering from a brief moment of pause. Perry stood calmly beside her, but she looked nervous and Greg couldn't pinpoint why. "I can't say I'm not surprised to see you here."

"Can't say I was expecting to run into you, either," Greg said.

Tyler exchanged a glance with Perry and returned her gaze to Greg. "I didn't know you were close to White."

"That's because I'm not."

"An hour's an awful lot of time to spend with someone who tried to kill you," Perry said.

"It is," Greg agreed, trying to sidestep the two agents but finding his back against the wall in an empty hallway.

"You didn't say you were going to visit White, yesterday, Tyler said."

"It was a kind of a last minute decision," Greg said, remembering White's words and Sara's misgivings about Tyler.

"We never did finish our conversation, did we?"

"Sorry, I'll have to cut it short, again, but maybe another time? White didn't have much to say, anyway, and I have to go."

"Go where?" Tyler asked.

"I have to go back to work," Greg said cautiously. "Look, I don't want to seem rude, but what are you doing here?"

"White's a person of high interest to us," Perry answered. "And we're starting to believe you are, too."

Greg forced a laughed. "Really, I'm not a high interest to anybody." He glanced around the hallway, sighing in relief when one of the doors open, but the relief was short-lived when he saw a female guard leading White out of the room adjacent to the one Greg just left.

The guard looked undecided, her hand wrapped tightly around White's arm as she brought him towards Tyler and Perry.

"Well," White said, disturbingly cheerful. "Things just get curiouser and curiouser, don't they, Greg?"

Tyler narrowed her eyes at Greg when he didn't say anything. "Perry," she said, nodding to her partner, who moved to stand with the guard on the other side of White.

"Don't want to talk to me, Jessica?" White said.

"You didn't used to be to be so friendly," Tyler said curtly. "Or is that just with people you try to kill?"

"I'm harmless, I promise." White held up his hands, palms facing outward as he rattled the handcuffs that now placed around his wrists. "There's nothing more for me to say."

Greg didn't want to bring any unnecessary attention to himself, but he felt Tyler's gaze on him once more, scrutinising him and searching his eyes for something. He remained quiet, torn between wanting to leave and needing to know more.

Seemingly content, Tyler turned back to White. Her gaze was fixed on White's forearm, where there was a rabbit tattoo similar to the one Greg saw on Davis. "Still have that tattoo, huh?" she said.

"I always like to carry a little luck with me," White said. "Manage to scrape by any, lately?"

There was a semblance of a smile on Tyler's face. "I found you, didn't I?"

* * *

Off the record, the case was closed, taken out of their jurisdictions on the grounds that White killed Evans and Meyers on federal property. It was a loophole, something trivial that they had overlooked, and White hadn't even had his trial, yet. Without White, there really wasn't much of a case left.

On one hand, Nick could understand Atwater's decision to hand the case over to Tyler and Perry. Two months of going nowhere with little to show for it. Nick wanted to see the end of it just as much as anyone else, but sometimes it was important to know when to move on and let go.

On the other hand, as long as there was still red tape to go through, at least the evidence was officially still their possession. Nick was keen to see what was on the USB drive they found in the wall. They still weren't sure if it the drive had anything to do with Davis' death, but so far it was the only possible motive they had. Though, if there was a correlation between the two, the real question was what was so incriminating on the drive the Davis had to be killed over it?

"Hey," Warrick said, taking a seat next to Nick, who nodded at his arrival. "Is it still decrypting?"

Nick raised his arms above his head, careful not hit Warrick while stretching. "I swear, man, every time they give us software, it takes that much longer."

"I think it's just you," Warrick said flatly, gesturing towards the progress bar on the computer screen that read ninety percent. "It's only been ten minutes,"

"Then tell me why it seems like I've been sitting here for more."

"You know," Warrick began thoughtfully, "my grandmother used to say that haste makes waste."

"I like to call it concern. Won't hold my breath, but I'm kind of hoping this won't lead us to another red herring. Which is what this entire case has turned out to be," Nick said, drumming on the edge of the table with his fingers. He stopped when the computer beeped and the screen displayed a folder named TEN. "There we go."

Warrick clicked on the folder, pulling up a short list of numbered files. "Doesn't give us a lot to work with."

"Looks like mostly pictures and documents, though. Hit the first one, the PDF file."

"Ming Han," Warrick murmured when a new window opened. The name appeared in large letters, bold and centered the top of the document.

"Otherwise known as Li Davis," Nick read.

"Isn't he the guy Tyler and Perry were looking for, the one part of the smuggling ring," Warrick asked, scrolling down and revealing a large block of text.

Nick nodded. "That's why they wanted White, to get to Davis." He scanned the rest of the file, eyes jumping to key pieces of information. Date of birth, Social Security number, current address, family members…

"Get this," Warrick said. "Apparently, he had two daughters, Alice and Lori."

"Also has a younger brother named Wei Han. We know a Stephen White who used to go by Wei Han. " Nick turned to Warrick. "The missing link. Explains White's ties to Davis, why he bailed her out after her arrest. The drug smuggling, the human trafficking, it's the connection we've been looking for."

"But only if it's legit. Davis is dead, and unless White suddenly decides to confess, we don't have any way of proving it."

"No, but it's a place to start. And maybe there's a way give it some credibility," Nick said. "Go back to the folder and click on third on from the bottom, the video file."

It looked like a picture at first, a still frame of someone's backyard taken from inside a small building. It was shot during the day, but the footage was grainy. The low resolution and size of the video suggested it was taken from a cell phone.

"Wait a minute," Warrick said, squinting at the screen. "That looks like the house we went to in Mesquite, White's house."

"No..." Nick looked at Warrick doubtfully, expression turning into one of bewilderment. "Really?"

"See the edge of the frame there, on the bottom left side?" Warrick paused the video and zoomed into the image of a small, glass cat sitting upright with one hand raised. "I didn't think much of it then, but I remember seeing it in the kitchen, by the TV."

"Could be something," Nick said. "When's this date back to?"

"It says here last week at 9:51 AM. Last Tuesday, actually."

"The day you were in Mesquite."

"So, theoretically speaking, if Davis was in there, if this connects her to White, who was she watching?"

"Let's see," Nick said, and Warrick continued the video. He frowned when four people appeared on the screen.

They were facing the opposite direction, so only their backs were visible. Two of them were dressed in black, wearing matching gloves and knitted caps. They were standing directly behind the other two, and Nick could make out the silhouettes of two guns in between them. The other couple appeared to be a man and a woman. One of the shooters hit the man on shoulder with the butt of the gun. The couple then slowly raised their hands and put them behind their heads.

"Isn't hard to see where this is going," Warrick said.

Nick grimaced. "It'd be nice if we could hear what they're saying, though." The video was being shot from inside the house, most likely behind closed doors without the people outside being aware of it. And even then, if the window wasn't open, the phone probably wouldn't be able to pick up sound from that far away.

"Doesn't look like we need to," Warrick said when one of the figures being held at gunpoint turned around before being shoved forward. He reversed the clip, enhancing the image and playing it back in slow motion. "That's Nathan Harrison."

"I thought the Harrisons were in protective custody." Nick narrowed his eyes in confusion, examining the face on the screen. "What the hell is going on?"

"That's what I want to know."

The video began to waver. It jerked violently, as if the person holding it recoiled, and even Nick felt himself flinch when the Harrisons fell to the ground, one on top of another.

The shooters lowered their guns slowly, facing each other before one of them walked out of the frame. The remaining shooter turned around, the face blurred and appearing only for a second before the screen cut to black.

"Can you get the face?" Nick asked.

Warrick went back to the clip of the shooter's face, enlarging the image on the screen. "Now we know who was after Davis," he said. "And why."

"Yeah." Staring at the face, Nick scoffed in disbelief. "That's Tyler."

* * *

"Sanders," Greg answered coolly, trying to keep the irritation he felt out of his voice. He didn't bother to check to see who was calling, repositioning his phone between his ear and shoulder as he opened the door to his car. It was already four o'clock, and after being stuck in the Detention Center for more than an hour because someone misplaced the box that contained his keys, he was more than ready to leave.

His conversation with White and his encounter with Tyler and Perry didn't help matters, either, and he just needed to get away.

Far, far away.

"Greg?" a voice said quickly and Greg recognised it as Grissom. "Where are you?"

"I'm in the parking lot by South Casino." Greg climbed into his car, the sound of the door closing covering an exasperated sigh. "I know I said I would call you as soon as I left, but I'm just now leaving. There was a mix-up with my security box and–"

"Now's not the time, Greg. Are you in the car?"

"Yeah, I'm getting ready to leave," Greg said slowly. "What's going on?"

"I need you to stay in your car. They're blocking off the roads, and I'm going to send somebody to pick you up, all right," Grissom said calmly, too calmly for whatever he was going to say next. "Don't move."

Greg stilled, hand in the middle of turning his keys in the ignition. "That's not exactly telling me what's going on, Grissom."

"When's the last time you spoke to Tyler?"

"Um, about an hour ago, I ran into her at the Detention Center, Perry, too. They came to pick up White, which I'm going to assume you already know about," Greg said drably.

"Was she acting strange, did she do anything unusual?"

Greg groaned, rubbing his eyes. "I don't really know her, so I can't–"

"Just answer the question, Greg."

"I…I guess she was acting kind of weird, or at least enough to make me uncomfortable. I could tell she didn't expect to see me. And then there was this…_thing_ going on between her and White. I get they were partners and there's history somewhere, but I don't know. It distracted her from trying to talk to me again."

"What did she say?"

"She said she wanted to finish our conversation, but I told her the same thing I did yesterday," Greg said. "Confirmed what she already knew about the case, told her I didn't much to say. Apparently that was enough, and she and Perry signed White out." Greg paused, confused at the audible sigh of relief from Grissom. "Why…did something happen to them?"

"Brass found two dead bodies in an abandoned car off the corner of Fremont and First. The plate on the car was registered to Tyler and the bodies belonged to Perry and White."

"Then where's Tyler?" Greg said uneasily. There was no public parking at the Detention Center, and Greg was forced to park in the County Parking Structure, near the corner of Fremont and South Casino Center Boulevard. It was only a couple of blocks from the Detention Center but right up the street from where Brass found White and Perry.

"I'm on my way there now, but I haven't heard anything, yet," "Grissom said.

"So, she was either responsible for White and Perry's deaths…"

"Or she wasn't."

"And judging by the sound of your voice, I can tell you don't think so."

"I'd rather not take any chances."

"I almost don't want to ask, but since we're talking about not taking chances and the fact that Tyler's missing. How do I fit in to this?"

"I'm not quite sure."

"You're not making me feel any better."

"I'm not trying to," Grissom said honestly. "If Tyler did kill Perry and White, there's reason to believe she may have been tying up any loose ends. And because you were one of the last people to speak to White, she may or may not think he told you something that could be used against her."

For a moment, Greg felt inexplicably numb. "Okay…that explains why you're telling me stay in my car. Anything else I should know?"

"Only that you…"

"Grissom?" Greg paused, waiting for a response from the other man. "Are you there? Grissom?"

He looked at his phone, realising he lost the call. It figured something like that would happen. He was going to call Grissom back, see, but the phone began to vibrate and he answered it before it had the chance to ring.

"Grissom, I think I lost the–"

"Greg?"

"Nick?"

"Jesus, I've been trying to call you for the last past ten minutes. Why weren't you answering your phone?"

"I was, uh, I was talking to Grissom I just left the Detention Center."

"Did he tell you about Tyler?"

"Before I lost the call, he told me some of it, yeah, about what happened to White and Perry." Greg sighed. "This really isn't turning out to be my day."

"Well, talk to me, are you all right?" Nick asked, his voice hurried and concerned.

"Considering I just saw Tyler, and I'm being told she pretty much killed her partner and the guy who tried to kill me. That she could be after me next. No, not really…I'm not all right. I think I'm kind of in shock, actually.

"Where are you now?"

"I'm in the parking lot."

"By South Casino? What are you still–?"

"Grissom told me to stay in the car, to be on the safe side. So, yeah, I'm still in my car, and Grissom said he sent somebody to pick me up. Of course, that seemed like a while ago, but it shouldn't take that long, I don't think."

"Do you need for me to come get you?"

"No…no, I um, I think I'll be okay. Can you just stay on phone for a little longer…talk to me until – never mind, it's stupid and–"

"No, it's not," Nick said softly. "I'll be right here."

Greg sagged against his seat. "Thank you."

* * *

Lucky's Café was a typical run of the mill diner in Vegas, safely tucked away in the Stratosphere but not really because everyone knew how to find it after midnight. It was equipped with a more than substandard atmosphere and overpriced less than mediocre food, but. But, as Warrick put it, like most of the 24 hour places in Vegas, everything always appeared cleaner and tasted better subsequent to having at least one of two things: hunger or a hangover.

And while Nick was barely halfway through his bottle of beer on the table, he more or less devoured a plate of the only passable steak and grits with hash browns served on the Strip at one in the morning.

He'd worry about working it off later, squeeze in time for the gym between sleep and getting over what turned out to be a disaster of a case. Two months of hard work gone down the drain and leading to nothing but a rogue FBI agent on the run. Naturally, Nick was disappointed. The whole team was affected by the mess the case eventually became, disappointed and probably even a little cheated, too. White's death for Tyler's freedom, they were left with the empty satisfaction of trading one criminal for another.

He wasn't disillusioned to believe the bad guy always got caught at the end day. Prevailing heroes and fumbling villains, the line between two blurred a long time ago. It was fading, breaking at points, and Nick wasn't sure if it ever existed. The boundary that used to be so clear, a certainty that made tomorrow bearable, and Nick wondered if it was the only reason he could sleep at night then wake up to face another reminder of the world getting smaller and smaller.

Each time someone crossed the line, each time Nick found himself close to crossing it, staggering on the edge. It was discouraging for Nick to watch, to be a part of, and made him question being a CSI. Helping people felt good, speaking for those without a voice felt right, was _right_, but following nine years experience of how life worked, Nick had trouble convincing himself of something that ultimately left him feeling hollow.

He took another swig of his beer, the dark liquid cool and bitter going down the back of his throat.

Crowded with drunken laughter spilling into snippets of easy-going conversation, the liveliness of the people around him was only marginally brightening Nick's mood. Going to Lucky's was a distraction at most, Catherine's suggestion of an impromptu and lackluster refuge since they were all hungry and putting off going home.

Though, it was somewhat better than Raffles, the place they would sometimes go to for breakfast in the morning. The diner was cheap, the service practically nonexistent, and Nick would forever associate it with Greg's belief that Sara had a secret fetish for a place she loved to nag. If she did, Nick wasn't going to judge because he nagged about it, too – nagged about the watery syrup, the runny eggs he still ate, the soggy French Toast Sara complained about but still ordered, and the non-smoking rule that wasn't enforced until the sun came up.

"Looks like Grissom's really not coming," Warrick said wearily. He pushed his plate to the middle of table, placing his fork and knife on top of it. "I hope he's not spending the night cooped up in his office."

"I know he likes being late, but it's already been an hour." Catherine sighed. "And after a case like this, I don't know where else he would be."

"Wallowing in pity with the rest of us?" Greg offered lightly, earning a snort from everyone else at the table.

"Um…just you, Greg," Sara amended, shooting a glance at Nick. "Unless…"

"Leave me out of this one," Nick said quickly, hold up his hands in mock surrender and ignoring the look of feigned hurt on Greg's face.

Catherine smirked. "How supportive of you, Nick."

"Anyway," Sara broke in pleasantly, "Grissom said if he didn't meet us here he was going home." She began to stand from her chair, the feet of the chair scarping against the floor. "Where I probably should be."

"You're leaving already?" Warrick looked at his watch. "It's not even two, yet."

"I'm not going to be stuck with the tab." Sara smiled wryly as she pointed to the check on the table, where a five dollar bill was already laid. "Again," she added jokingly, resting her hands on the back of the chair.

"Catherine," Greg said kindly, eyes imploring as he leaned closer to Catherine, his shoulder lightly nudging hers. "Have I ever told you how much I love you?"

She scoffed and placed her hand on Greg's shoulder, gently pushing him towards Nick. "Enough to know when you want something from me," she said mildly, taking another sip of her drink. "I'm not paying for you, Greg. I already have a child to feed."

"Nice to know that I'm loved, too," Greg said dully.

Warrick gave an unapologetic smile. "Got nothing else to give."

"Okay, I see how it is," Greg said suspiciously, ignoring the barely concealed chortle from Nick. He raised his hand, pointing to Warrick and then Catherine. "But one of these days that excuse is not going to fly."

"Says the one who conveniently left his money in the car," Catherine pointed out, provoking laughter from everyone around the table except Greg.

Shaking her head, Sara removed her hands from the chair and zipped up her jacket. "Well, I'm out."

"You sure?" Nick asked.

"Still not too late to get an early start for tomorrow – today – whatever."

Greg waved at Sara with a mock salute. "Good luck with that one."

She half-heartedly returned the gesture and left following a small chorus of goodbyes.

"Hours later and I still feel like I've been sucker-punched," Catherine said drably. She moved her fork around her plate, picking at her chicken salad.

"You and me both," Warrick agreed. "I still can't believe Tyler had something to do with this. She was right under our noses the whole time, and we didn't even see it coming."

"That's because we were too busy looking at every other angle," Nick said.

"The worst part is that the signs were all there and somehow we missed them."

"But you always see these things in retrospect," Greg reasoned. "Tyler was supposed to be on our side, the good side."

"The good side?" Warrick said. "Whatever that is anymore."

"Good or bad, it won't matter." Catherine shook her head. "I don't doubt she's long gone by now, probably on her way across the border."

"She's still a fugitive," Greg offered. "The FBI put an APB out on her. That has to mean something since there's not a lot places for Tyler to go."

"And you saw exactly how much that meant today, so don't get your hopes–" Catherine began, interrupted by the sound of a muted ringtone coming from her side. She turned to her right and reached inside of her purse, taking out her cell phone and turning off the ringtone. "That was my alarm. Believe or not, Lindsey has a curfew on me, now."

"That's…" Nick said awkwardly, struggling for the right word to say.

"My cue to go," Catherine finished.

"And I'll walk you out," Warrick said, standing alongside Catherine.

"A little quick to leave, aren't you, Warrick?" Greg asked.

"If I stay out any longer, Tina's probably going to put a curfew on me."

"Ah," Catherine said in understanding. "Finally accustomed to the married life?"

Warrick intentionally turned his attention to Nick and Greg. "Not quite yet," he said slyly.

Nick responded with a deadpan expression. "Ha ha."

"So funny we forgot to laugh," Greg added.

Warrick shared a look with Catherine. "And there it is."

"If you're not going to pay, get out of here," Nick said good-naturedly.

"And there it is," Catherine repeated with a smile, pulling the strap of her purse over her shoulder and following Warrick out of the diner. "Bye, guys."

Greg waved at the retreating forms of his colleagues before turning back to Nick. "So, it's just us."

"Just us," Nick said, holding back the urge to yawn. He gestured to Greg's glass of ice. "You want more water?"

Greg shook his head. "I'm in the middle of deciding if I should try to salvage my fries. You know," he said pointedly, "after you allegedly spilled ketchup on _my_ plate."

Nick took a fry coated in ketchup from Greg's plate without any physical protest from the other man. "We always share fries," he said, clenching the fry between his teeth before putting it in his mouth.

"No, instead of ordering your own, you always go for my fries and strategically spill ketchup on my plate so you can have the rest of them for yourself."

"It's amazing how well you know me," Nick said in adoration, paying no attention to the sharp look Greg was giving him. "Besides, you said you weren't hungry."

"Flattery doesn't make it better, Nicky. We both know this, and really, a plate of fries can only go so far…even when I'm not hungry."

Grin disappearing, Nick stared at the plate in question, noticing he'd eaten considerably more off the plate than he normally would have. "You didn't eat anything."

"Nah, I ate a couple before they had the chance to be ruined by your evil machinations. You're in the clear for now. Be grateful my recent near brush with mortality took away my appetite."

Nick frowned. "I'll buy you some more."

"I don't want anymore. I'm too restless to eat, anyway."

"Are you upset about White?"

"No, about what he said." Closing his eyes, Greg took a deep breath, placing his hands on the sides of his face and rubbing his temples. "Yeah, I'll admit you and Catherine were right about him being egotist with an extended superiority complex."

"Do I get sympathy from you, now?"

"No, I'm still trying to make up my mind because you didn't spend as much time with him as I did," Greg said hesitantly. "I told you already, but the way he got into my head and for a while it felt like he knew everything about me. And what happened with the Harrisons, Davis, and Perry – just everything, and I think a lot of this stuff could have been avoided if we traced it back to Tyler."

"Like you told Warrick, it's all in hindsight."

"I know Davis and White weren't the best people, but weren't they victims, too?"

"Obviously, you know I'm going to disagree with you there, and I hope you don't take this wrong way, but please don't tell me you're suffering from some kind of diminutive form of Stockholm syndrome."

Pulling his hands away from his face, Greg looked up to glare at Nick. "No, I didn't think you would agree with me," he said with a sigh, expression relaxing. "But don't you want to know what White was actually responsible for and what it had to do with Tyler? He knew she was going after him."

"I don't, and giving us a couple of names isn't going to change what he's already done," Nick said plainly. "The point is we may never know what happened, and it's best to leave it at that. If White talking to you gave us information we can use, I'm all for it, let the FBI handle this one, let them take care of their own. But you can't feel sorry for someone who got what was coming to him."

"I'm not saying I feel sorry for him, but…that can't be it. This huge conundrum I'll never figure out."

"Remember that woman from Mexico I told you about, the one working for some guy who smuggled her into the States?"

"Yeah," Greg said softly. "He killed her son."

"Sometimes…sometimes, that's just how it is, and you have to learn to let it go or it's going to eventually pull you under."

"What about Davis, then? Did she get what was coming to her, too?"

"Maybe, maybe not, but either way both of them were caught up in something they couldn't handle, and neither of them was completely innocent," Nick said firmly. "To be honest with you, I'm just glad you're not part of it anymore. I'm glad neither of us is. I could have lost you – _again_ – and it's a position I can't stand being in because it _scares_ me, Greg. I know you don't like me getting sappy on you, but…"

Nick sighed heavily. He was being a hypocrite, and he acknowledged it. While his earlier advice wasn't misplaced, if something happened to Greg beyond those close calls – as long as Greg was in one piece, he could cope. But if Greg was ever taken away from him, Nick knew he'd never be able to let go.

Lowering his head, Greg reached for the straw in his drink, gripping it between two fingers and putting in his mouth. "You're making me feel guilty," he said with a burgeoning smirk, peering at Nick from beneath his eyelashes

"The only time you should feel guilty is if you do what I think you're going to do," Nick cautioned. He watched Greg the straw twirl the straw in his drink, pushing the ice against the sides of the glass and planting the end of the straw at the bottom.

There was a slurping noise. An annoying sound, grating on Nick's ears, and the only reason Greg made it was because he knew it was one of Nick's pet peeves. "That stopped being funny in third grade, man."

"Au contraire, my friend, I happen to know that some people find it quite endearing." Greg grinned, making the slurping noise again. "And I'm waiting for you to admit that you're one of them."

Nick rested his elbow on the table, face leaning against his palm. "Now you're just doing it to be obnoxious," he said lightly.

"How can you tell?" Greg asked. He titled his head to the side playfully, but the amusement in his eyes softened, waned, and his grin settled into a frown. "…Nick?"

"Hmm?"

Slowly, Greg raised his head, removing the straw from his mouth. "Remember that staring thing we talked about earlier?"

Nick didn't bother to deny it this time. "It's not my fault you're silly."

"And it's not my fault you're sappy, but if anyone should be complaining, it's me."

Nick rolled his eyes, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. Ready to go?"

"Waiting for you." Greg pushed his plate to the other side of the table. "This is what happens when I think too much: I starting thinking about paying someone to stop it."

"You didn't really leave your money in the car, did you?"

"Well, technically, I never said I left _all_ of my money in the car."

"I can't believe how stingy you are. You'd think Catherine would get it by now."

"But as long as she keeps leaving money for the tip, don't tell her. I don't want to have a morning-after with her. That'll just be awkward."

Nick snorted. "Start paying for yourself and she won't have to know."

"I'm prolonging the inevitable as long as possible." Greg looked at Nick thoughtfully. "We could go Dutch? I pay for me, and you pay for everybody else," he said teasingly.

"Don't worry about it." Nick took out a few bills from his wallet and set them on the table on top of the check. "I'll cover for you."

"You know I wasn't being serious."

Nick smiled at Greg reassuringly. "I know, and I'll let you get it next time."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. Let's just go home."

* * *

_The leeway thing again, please forgive me for it. I tried to be somewhat realistic, but when canon's not always realistic, I really don't have much to work from._

_Anyway, this is the part where I resolve to never write another chapter fic again or anything longer than a thousand words...which would be fine if I wasn't already working on a sequel/sequels to something else. As for this monster, this glorified song fic (I kid you not; that's all it is): The End. __Burn in fire and brimstone for all I care. I'm finished, still don't like it, and because it's fitting, zài jiàn._

_I know I didn't offer much in the way of closure and made it even worse by limiting the fic to only Nick and Greg's vantage points. Leaving things open to interpretation is something I'm horrendously horrible with, but I'm not one who is wont to close a book. The entire story was already scripted nearly a year ago, of course tweaked a bit each chapter, and it essentially comes back to the summary…however ridiculously vague that is. There were attempts at hinting to what was really going on because I try too hard not to be predictable, but then there was that vague thing again I'm really trying to work on. But yeah, it's another one that got away. I didn't think it would be appropriate for a happier ending given the initial subject matter._

_Also, I realise I kind of strayed a bit from the earlier claim this was a case-centric fic. The whole Nick/Greg thing progressed more than I thought it would, but how a single murder led to drug peddling, child laundering, cold case file opening, questionable stalker(ing), Greg whumping, gary stu/villain fawning (on my part), angry Nick attacking, corrupt FBI(ing) and a somewhat sappy ending? I don't know. Honestly, it made sense until the middle of writing it, when it became some peculiar amalgamation of things that I seemingly had no control over. I won't even go through the allusions, ironies, and obscure references, which were reduced to Jefferson Airplane and Lewis Carroll with a _**_thin_**_ (and I mean **thin**) rubber band of Chinese cultural influence wrapped around them -- that is all._

_Long author's note is long, but carping/rambling aside, thank you again for reading, sticking with this, and thank you to **LaughableBlackStorm** and **QueenOfTheUniverse **for reviewing and giving me the final push I needed. Another long and tiresome ride, but I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I was supposed to "enjoy" writing it._


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